5720	----	A SHROPSHIRE LAD By A. E. Housman Introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite 1919 INTRODUCTION The method of the poems in _ A Shropshire Lad _ illustrates better than any theory how poetry may assume the attire of reality, and yet in speech of the simplest, become in spirit the sheer quality of loveliness. For, in these unobtrusive pages, there is nothing shunned which makes the spectacle of life parade its dark and painful, its ironic and cynical burdens, as well as those images with happy and exquisite aspects. With a broader and deeper background of experience and environment, which by some divine special privilege belongs to the poetic imagination, it is easier to set apart and contrast these opposing words and sympathies in a poet; but here we find them evoked in a restricted locale- an English county-where the rich, cool tranquil landscape gives a solid texture to the human show. What, I think, impresses one, thrills, like ecstatic, half-smothered strains of music, floating from unperceived instruments, in Mr. Housman's poems, is the encounter his spirit constantly endures with life. It is, this encounter, what you feel in the Greeks, and as in the Greeks, it is a spiritual waging of miraculous forces. There is, too, in Mr. Housman's poems, the singularly Grecian Quality of a clean and fragrant mental and emotional temper, vibrating equally whether the theme dealt with is ruin or defeat, or some great tragic crisis of spirit, or with moods and ardours of pure enjoyment and simplicities of feeling. Scarcely has any modern book of poems shown so sure a touch of genius in this respect: the magic, in a continuous glow saturating the substance of every picture and motive with its own peculiar essence. What has been called the "cynical bitterness" of Mr. Housman's poems, is really nothing more than his ability to etch in sharp tones the actualities of experience. The poet himself is never cynical; his joyousness is all too apparent in the very manner and intensity of expression. The "lads" of Ludlow are so human to him, the hawthorn and broom on the Severn shores are so fragrant with associations, he cannot help but compose under a kind of imaginative wizardry of exultation, even when the immediate subject is grim or grotesque. In many of these brief, tense poems the reader confronts a mask, as it were, with appalling and distorted lineaments; but behind it the poet smiles, perhaps sardonically, but smiles nevertheless. In the real countenance there are no tears or grievances, but a quizzical, humorous expression which shows, when one has torn the subterfuge away, that here is a spirit whom life may menace with its contradictions and fatalities, but never dupe with its circumstance and mystery. All this quite points to, and partly explains, the charm of the poems in _ A Shropshire Lad _. The fastidious care with which each poem is built out of the simplest of technical elements, the precise tone and color of language employed to articulate impulse and mood, and the reproduction of objective substances for a clear visualization of character and scene, all tend by a sure and unfaltering composition, to present a lyric art unique in English poetry of the last twenty-five years. I dare say I have scarcely touched upon the secret of Mr. Housman's book. For some it may radiate from the Shropshire life he so finely etches; for others, in the vivid artistic simplicity and unity of values, through which Shropshire lads and landscapes are presented. It must be, however, in the miraculous fusing of the two. Whatever that secret is, the charm of it never fails after all these years to keep the poems preserved with a freshness and vitality, which are the qualities of enduring genius. WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE A SHROPSHIRE LAD I 1887 From Clee to heaven the beacon burns, The shires have seen it plain, From north and south the sign returns And beacons burn again. Look left, look right, the hills are bright, The dales are light between, Because 'tis fifty years to-night That God has saved the Queen. Now, when the flame they watch not towers About the soil they trod, Lads, we'll remember friends of ours Who shared the work with God. To skies that knit their heartstrings right, To fields that bred them brave, The saviours come not home to-night: Themselves they could not save. It dawns in Asia, tombstones show And Shropshire names are read; And the Nile spills his overflow Beside the Severn's dead. We pledge in peace by farm and town The Queen they served in war, And fire the beacons up and down The land they perished for. "God Save the Queen" we living sing, From height to height 'tis heard; And with the rest your voices ring, Lads of the Fifty-third. Oh, God will save her, fear you not: Be you the men you've been, Get you the sons your fathers got, And God will Save the Queen. II Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. III THE RECRUIT Leave your home behind, lad, And reach your friends your hand, And go, and luck go with you While Ludlow tower shall stand. Oh, come you home of Sunday When Ludlow streets are still And Ludlow bells are calling To farm and lane and mill, Or come you home of Monday When Ludlow market hums And Ludlow chimes are playing "The conquering hero comes," Come you home a hero, Or come not home at all, The lads you leave will mind you Till Ludlow tower shall fall. And you will list the bugle That blows in lands of morn, And make the foes of England Be sorry you were born. And you till trump of doomsday On lands of morn may lie, And make the hearts of comrades Be heavy where you die. Leave your home behind you, Your friends by field and town Oh, town and field will mind you Till Ludlow tower is down. IV REVEILLE Wake: the silver dusk returning Up the beach of darkness brims, And the ship of sunrise burning Strands upon the eastern rims. Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters, Trampled to the floor it spanned, And the tent of night in tatters Straws the sky-pavilioned land. Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying: Hear the drums of morning play; Hark, the empty highways crying "Who'll beyond the hills away?" Towns and countries woo together, Forelands beacon, belfries call; Never lad that trod on leather Lived to feast his heart with all. Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber Sunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumber Were not meant for man alive. Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep Up, lad: when the journey's over There'll be time enough to sleep. V Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers Are lying in field and lane, With dandelions to tell the hours That never are told again. Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay? -'Twill do no harm to take my arm. "You may, young man, you may." Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad, 'Tis now the blood runs gold, And man and maid had best be glad Before the world is old. What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow, But never as good as new. -Suppose I wound my arm right round- " 'Tis true, young man, 'tis true." Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say, That only court to thieve, And once they bear the bloom away 'Tis little enough they leave. Then keep your heart for men like me And safe from trustless chaps. My love is true and all for you. "Perhaps, young man, perhaps." Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt? -Why, 'tis a mile from town. How green the grass is all about! We might as well sit down. -Ah, life, what is it but a flower? Why must true lovers sigh? Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,- "Good-bye, young man, good-bye." VI When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and morn Lovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well. VII When smoke stood up from Ludlow, And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team, The blackbird in the coppice Looked out to see me stride, And hearkened as I whistled The tramping team beside, And fluted and replied: "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; What use to rise and rise? Rise man a thousand mornings Yet down at last he lies, And then the man is wise." I heard the tune he sang me, And spied his yellow bill; I picked a stone and aimed it And threw it with a will: Then the bird was still. Then my soul within me Took up the blackbird's strain, And still beside the horses Along the dewy lane It Sang the song again: "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; The sun moves always west; The road one treads to labour Will lead one home to rest, And that will be the best." VIII "Farewell to barn and stack and tree, Farewell to Severn shore. Terence, look your last at me, For I come home no more. "The sun burns on the half-mown hill, By now the blood is dried; And Maurice amongst the hay lies still And my knife is in his side." "My mother thinks us long away; 'Tis time the field were mown. She had two sons at rising day, To-night she'll be alone." "And here's a bloody hand to shake, And oh, man, here's good-bye; We'll sweat no more on scythe and rake, My bloody hands and I." "I wish you strength to bring you pride, And a love to keep you clean, And I wish you luck, come Lammastide, At racing on the green." "Long for me the rick will wait, And long will wait the fold, And long will stand the empty plate, And dinner will be cold." IX On moonlit heath and lonesome bank The sheep beside me graze; And yon the gallows used to clank Fast by the four cross ways. A careless shepherd once would keep The flocks by moonlight there, (1) And high amongst the glimmering sheep The dead man stood on air. They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail: The whistles blow forlorn, And trains all night groan on the rail To men that die at morn. There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night, Or wakes, as may betide, A better lad, if things went right, Than most that sleep outside. And naked to the hangman's noose The morning clocks will ring A neck God made for other use Than strangling in a string. And sharp the link of life will snap, And dead on air will stand Heels that held up as straight a chap As treads upon the land. So here I'll watch the night and wait To see the morning shine, When he will hear the stroke of eight And not the stroke of nine; And wish my friend as sound a sleep As lads' I did not know, That shepherded the moonlit sheep A hundred years ago. (1) Hanging in chains was called keeping sheep by moonlight. X MARCH The sun at noon to higher air, Unharnessing the silver Pair That late before his chariot swam, Rides on the gold wool of the Ram. So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again. The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils. Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand. In farm and field through all the shire The eye beholds the heart's desire; Ah, let not only mine be vain, For lovers should be loved again. XI On your midnight pallet lying Listen, and undo the door: Lads that waste the light in sighing In the dark should sigh no more; Night should ease a lover's sorrow; Therefore, since I go to-morrow; Pity me before. In the land to which I travel, The far dwelling, let me say- Once, if here the couch is gravel, In a kinder bed I lay, And the breast the darnel smothers Rested once upon another's When it was not clay. XII When I watch the living meet, And the moving pageant file Warm and breathing through the street Where I lodge a little while, If the heats of hate and lust In the house of flesh are strong, Let me mind the house of dust Where my sojourn shall be long. In the nation that is not Nothing stands that stood before; There revenges are forgot, And the hater hates no more; Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride. XIII When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. XIV There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet, In seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, World without end, are drowned. His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away. There flowers no balm to sain him From east of earth to west That's lost for everlasting The heart out of his breast. Here by the labouring highway With empty hands I stroll: Sea-deep, till doomsday morning, Lie lost my heart and soul. XV Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me. One the long nights through must lie Spent in star-defeated sighs, But why should you as well as I Perish? gaze not in my eyes. A Grecian lad, as I hear tell, One that many loved in vain, Looked into a forest well And never looked away again. There, when the turf in springtime flowers, With downward eye and gazes sad, Stands amid the glancing showers A jonquil, not a Grecian lad. XVI It nods and curtseys and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of lovers That hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the lover That hanged himself for love. XVII Twice a week the winter thorough Here stood I to keep the goal: Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man's soul. Now in May time to the wicket Out I march with bat and pad: See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad. Try I will; no harm in trying: Wonder 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth. XVIII Oh, when I was in love with you, Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave. And now the fancy passes by, And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again. XIX TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high. To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's. XX Oh fair enough are sky and plain, But I know fairer far: Those are as beautiful again That in the water are; The pools and rivers wash so clean The trees and clouds and air, The like on earth was never seen, And oh that I were there. These are the thoughts I often think As I stand gazing down In act upon the cressy brink To strip and dive and drown; But in the golden-sanded brooks And azure meres I spy A silly lad that longs and looks And wishes he were I. XXI BREDON HILL (1) In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away: "Come all to church, good people; Good people, come and pray." But here my love would stay. And I would turn and answer Among the springing thyme, "Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church in time." But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she, And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people,"- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come. (1) Pronounced Breedon. XXII The street sounds to the soldiers' tread, And out we troop to see: A single redcoat turns his head, He turns and looks at me. My man, from sky to sky's so far, We never crossed before; Such leagues apart the world's ends are, We're like to meet no more; What thoughts at heart have you and I We cannot stop to tell; But dead or living, drunk or dry, Soldier, I wish you well. XXIII The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair, There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold, The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there, And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old. There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart, And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave, And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart, And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave. I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern; And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell And watch them depart on the way that they will not return. But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan; And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old. XXIV Say, lad, have you things to do? Quick then, while your day's at prime. Quick, and if 'tis work for two, Here am I, man: now's your time. Send me now, and I shall go; Call me, I shall hear you call; Use me ere they lay me low Where a man's no use at all; Ere the wholesome flesh decay, And the willing nerve be numb, And the lips lack breath to say, "No, my lad, I cannot come." XXV This time of year a twelvemonth past, When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle, till at last We fought and I was beat. So then the summer fields about, Till rainy days began, Rose Harland on her Sundays out Walked with the better man. The better man she walks with still, Though now 'tis not with Fred: A lad that lives and has his will Is worth a dozen dead. Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather, And clay's the house he keeps; When Rose and I walk out together Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps. XXVI Along the fields as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. "Oh who are these that kiss and pass? A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love." And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad. XXVII "Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?" Ay, the horses trample, The harness jingles now; No change though you lie under The land you used to plough. "Is football playing Along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather, Now I stand up no more?" Ay, the ball is flying, The lads play heart and soul; The goal stands up, the keeper Stands up to keep the goal. "Is my girl happy, That I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping As she lies down at eve?" Ay, she lies down lightly, She lies not down to weep: Your girl is well contented. Be still, my lad, and sleep. "Is my friend hearty, Now I am thin and pine, And has he found to sleep in A better bed than mine?" Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose. XXVIII THE WELSH MARCHES High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam Islanded in Severn stream; The bridges from the steepled crest Cross the water east and west. The flag of morn in conqueror's state Enters at the English gate: The vanquished eve, as night prevails, Bleeds upon the road to Wales. Ages since the vanquished bled Round my mother's marriage-bed; There the ravens feasted far About the open house of war: When Severn down to Buildwas ran Coloured with the death of man, Couched upon her brother's grave The Saxon got me on the slave. The sound of fight is silent long That began the ancient wrong; Long the voice of tears is still That wept of old the endless ill. In my heart it has not died, The war that sleeps on Severn side; They cease not fighting, east and west, On the marches of my breast. Here the truceless armies yet Trample, rolled in blood and sweat; They kill and kill and never die; And I think that each is I. None will part us, none undo The knot that makes one flesh of two, Sick with hatred, sick with pain, Strangling-When shall we be slain? When shall I be dead and rid Of the wrong my father did? How long, how long, till spade and hearse Put to sleep my mother's curse? XXIX THE LENT LILY 'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found. And there's the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there's the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day. And since till girls go maying You find the primrose still, And find the windflower playing With every wind at will, But not the daffodil, Bring baskets now, and sally Upon the spring's array, And bear from hill and valley The daffodil away That dies on Easter day. XXX Others, I am not the first, Have willed more mischief than they durst: If in the breathless night I too Shiver now, 'tis nothing new. More than I, if truth were told, Have stood and sweated hot and cold, And through their reins in ice and fire Fear contended with desire. Agued once like me were they, But I like them shall win my way Lastly to the bed of mould Where there's neither heat nor cold. But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night. XXXI On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon. XXXII From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now- for a breath I tarry Nor yet disperse apart- Take my hand quick and tell me, What have you in your heart. Speak now, and I will answer; How shall I help you, say; Ere to the wind's twelve quarters I take my endless way. XXXIII If truth in hearts that perish Could move the powers on high, I think the love I bear you Should make you not to die. Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning, If single thought could save, The world might end to-morrow, You should not see the grave. This long and sure-set liking, This boundless will to please, -Oh, you should live for ever If there were help in these. But now, since all is idle, To this lost heart be kind, Ere to a town you journey Where friends are ill to find. XXXIV THE NEW MISTRESS _ "Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be? You may be good for something, but you are not good for me. Oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here." _ And that was all the farewell when I parted from my dear. "I will go where I am wanted, to a lady born and bred Who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red; She will not be sick to see me if I only keep it clean: I will go where I am wanted for a soldier of the Queen." "I will go where I am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind; He may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind: He gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap, And I never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap." "I will go where I am wanted, where there's room for one or two, And the men are none too many for the work there is to do; Where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick; And the enemies of England they shall see me and be sick." XXXV On the idle hill of summer, Sleepy with the flow of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer Drumming like a noise in dreams. Far and near and low and louder On the roads of earth go by, Dear to friends and food for powder, Soldiers marching, all to die. East and west on fields forgotten Bleach the bones of comrades slain, Lovely lads and dead and rotten; None that go return again. Far the calling bugles hollo, High the screaming fife replies, Gay the files of scarlet follow: Woman bore me, I will rise. XXXVI White in the moon the long road lies, The moon stands blank above; White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love. Still hangs the hedge without a gust, Still, still the shadows stay: My feet upon the moonlit dust Pursue the ceaseless way. The world is round, so travellers tell, And straight though reach the track, Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well, The way will guide one back. But ere the circle homeward hies Far, far must it remove: White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love. XXXVII As through the wild green hills of Wyre The train ran, changing sky and shire, And far behind, a fading crest, Low in the forsaken west Sank the high-reared head of Clee, My hand lay empty on my knee. Aching on my knee it lay: That morning half a shire away So many an honest fellow's fist Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist. Hand, said I, since now we part From fields and men we know by heart, From strangers' faces, strangers' lands,- Hand, you have held true fellows' hands. Be clean then; rot before you do A thing they'd not believe of you. You and I must keep from shame In London streets the Shropshire name; On banks of Thames they must not say Severn breeds worse men than they; And friends abroad must bear in mind Friends at home they leave behind. Oh, I shall be stiff and cold When I forget you, hearts of gold; The land where I shall mind you not Is the land where all's forgot. And if my foot returns no more To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore, Luck, my lads, be with you still By falling stream and standing hill, By chiming tower and whispering tree, Men that made a man of me. About your work in town and farm Still you'll keep my head from harm, Still you'll help me, hands that gave A grasp to friend me to the grave. XXXVIII The winds out of the west land blow, My friends have breathed them there; Warm with the blood of lads I know Comes east the sighing air. It fanned their temples, filled their lungs, Scattered their forelocks free; My friends made words of it with tongues That talk no more to me. Their voices, dying as they fly, Thick on the wind are sown; The names of men blow soundless by, My fellows' and my own. Oh lads, at home I heard you plain, But here your speech is still, And down the sighing wind in vain You hollo from the hill. The wind and I, we both were there, But neither long abode; Now through the friendless world we fare And sigh upon the road. XXXIX 'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town The golden broom should blow; The hawthorn sprinkled up and down Should charge the land with snow. Spring will not wait the loiterer's time Who keeps so long away; So others wear the broom and climb The hedgerows heaped with may. Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, Gold that I never see; Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge That will not shower on me. XL Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again. XLI In my own shire, if I was sad Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade's pain. And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The seasons range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another's care. They have enough as 'tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill. XLII THE MERRY GUIDE Once in the wind of morning I ranged the thymy wold; The world-wide air was azure And all the brooks ran gold. There through the dews beside me Behold a youth that trod, With feathered cap on forehead, And poised a golden rod. With mien to match the morning And gay delightful guise And friendly brows and laughter He looked me in the eyes. Oh whence, I asked, and whither? He smiled and would not say, And looked at me and beckoned And laughed and led the way. And with kind looks and laughter And nought to say beside We two went on together, I and my happy guide. Across the glittering pastures And empty upland still And solitude of shepherds High in the folded hill, By hanging woods and hamlets That gaze through orchards down On many a windmill turning And far-discovered town, With gay regards of promise And sure unslackened stride And smiles and nothing spoken Led on my merry guide. By blowing realms of woodland With sunstruck vanes afield And cloud-led shadows sailing About the windy weald, By valley-guarded granges And silver waters wide, Content at heart I followed With my delightful guide. And like the cloudy shadows Across the country blown We two face on for ever, But not we two alone. With the great gale we journey That breathes from gardens thinned, Borne in the drift of blossoms Whose petals throng the wind; Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper Of dancing leaflets whirled From all the woods that autumn Bereaves in all the world. And midst the fluttering legion Of all that ever died I follow, and before us Goes the delightful guide, With lips that brim with laughter But never once respond, And feet that fly on feathers, And serpent-circled wand. XLIII THE IMMORTAL PART When I meet the morning beam, Or lay me down at night to dream, I hear my bones within me say, "Another night, another day." "When shall this slough of sense be cast, This dust of thoughts be laid at last, The man of flesh and soul be slain And the man of bone remain?" "This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout, These thews that hustle us about, This brain that fills the skull with schemes, And its humming hive of dreams,-" "These to-day are proud in power And lord it in their little hour: The immortal bones obey control Of dying flesh and dying soul." " 'Tis long till eve and morn are gone: Slow the endless night comes on, And late to fulness grows the birth That shall last as long as earth." "Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest? 'Tis that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton." "Lie down in the bed of dust; Bear the fruit that bear you must; Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night." "Rest you so from trouble sore, Fear the heat o' the sun no more, Nor the snowing winter wild, Now you labour not with child." "Empty vessel, garment cast, We that wore you long shall last. -Another night, another day." So my bones within me say. Therefore they shall do my will To-day while I am master still, And flesh and soul, now both are strong, Shall hale the sullen slaves along, Before this fire of sense decay, This smoke of thought blow clean away, And leave with ancient night alone The stedfast and enduring bone. XLIV Shot? so quick, so clean an ending? Oh that was right, lad, that was brave: Yours was not an ill for mending, 'Twas best to take it to the grave. Oh you had forethought, you could reason, And saw your road and where it led, And early wise and brave in season Put the pistol to your head. Oh soon, and better so than later After long disgrace and scorn, You shot dead the household traitor, The soul that should not have been born. Right you guessed the rising morrow And scorned to tread the mire you must: Dust's your wages, son of sorrow, But men may come to worse than dust. Souls undone, undoing others,- Long time since the tale began. You would not live to wrong your brothers: Oh lad, you died as fits a man. Now to your grave shall friend and stranger With ruth and some with envy come: Undishonoured, clear of danger, Clean of guilt, pass hence and home. Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking; And here, man, here's the wreath I've made: 'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking, But wear it and it will not fade. XLV If it chance your eye offend you, Pluck it out, lad, and be sound: 'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you, And many a balsam grows on ground. And if your hand or foot offend you, Cut it off, lad, and be whole; But play the man, stand up and end you, When your sickness is your soul. XLVI Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew His leaves that live December through; Break no rosemary, bright with rime And sparkling to the cruel clime; Nor plod the winter land to look For willows in the icy brook To cast them leafless round him: bring No spray that ever buds in spring. But if the Christmas field has kept Awns the last gleaner overstept, Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue A single season, never two; Or if one haulm whose year is o'er Shivers on the upland frore, -Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain Whatever will not flower again, To give him comfort: he and those Shall bide eternal bedfellows Where low upon the couch he lies Whence he never shall arise. XLVII THE CARPENTER'S SON "Here the hangman stops his cart: Now the best of friends must part. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die." "Oh, at home had I but stayed 'Prenticed to my father's trade, Had I stuck to plane and adze, I had not been lost, my lads." "Then I might have built perhaps Gallows-trees for other chaps, Never dangled on my own, Had I but left ill alone." "Now, you see, they hang me high, And the people passing by Stop to shake their fists and curse; So 'tis come from ill to worse." "Here hang I, and right and left Two poor fellows hang for theft: All the same's the luck we prove, Though the midmost hangs for love." "Comrades all, that stand and gaze, Walk henceforth in other ways; See my neck and save your own: Comrades all, leave ill alone." "Make some day a decent end, Shrewder fellows than your friend. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die." XLVIII Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,-call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long. Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born. Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done. Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation- Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again? XLIX Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly: Why should men make haste to die? Empty heads and tongues a-talking Make the rough road easy walking, And the feather pate of folly Bears the falling sky. Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around. If young hearts were not so clever, Oh, they would be young for ever: Think no more; 'tis only thinking Lays lads underground. L _ Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun. _ In valleys of springs of rivers, By Ony and Teme and Clun, The country for easy livers, The quietest under the sun, We still had sorrows to lighten, One could not be always glad, And lads knew trouble at Knighton When I was a Knighton lad. By bridges that Thames runs under, In London, the town built ill, 'Tis sure small matter for wonder If sorrow is with one still. And if as a lad grows older The troubles he bears are more, He carries his griefs on a shoulder That handselled them long before. Where shall one halt to deliver This luggage I'd lief set down? Not Thames, not Teme is the river, Nor London nor Knighton the town: 'Tis a long way further than Knighton, A quieter place than Clun, Where doomsday may thunder and lighten And little 'twill matter to one. LI Loitering with a vacant eye Along the Grecian gallery, And brooding on my heavy ill, I met a statue standing still. Still in marble stone stood he, And stedfastly he looked at me. "Well met," I thought the look would say, "We both were fashioned far away; We neither knew, when we were young, These Londoners we live among." Still he stood and eyed me hard, An earnest and a grave regard: "What, lad, drooping with your lot? I too would be where I am not. I too survey that endless line Of men whose thoughts are not as mine. Years, ere you stood up from rest, On my neck the collar prest; Years, when you lay down your ill, I shall stand and bear it still. Courage, lad, 'tis not for long: Stand, quit you like stone, be strong." So I thought his look would say; And light on me my trouble lay, And I slept out in flesh and bone Manful like the man of stone. LII Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By pools I used to know. There, in the windless night-time, The wanderer, marvelling why, Halts on the bridge to hearken How soft the poplars sigh. He hears: long since forgotten In fields where I was known, Here I lie down in London And turn to rest alone. There, by the starlit fences, The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs. LIII THE TRUE LOVER The lad came to the door at night, When lovers crown their vows, And whistled soft and out of sight In shadow of the boughs. "I shall not vex you with my face Henceforth, my love, for aye; So take me in your arms a space Before the east is grey." "When I from hence away am past I shall not find a bride, And you shall be the first and last I ever lay beside." She heard and went and knew not why; Her heart to his she laid; Light was the air beneath the sky But dark under the shade. "Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast Seems not to rise and fall, And here upon my bosom prest There beats no heart at all?" "Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock, You should have felt it then; But since for you I stopped the clock It never goes again." "Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips Wet from your neck on mine? What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes of brine?" "Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear 'Twill bleed because of it." Under the stars the air was light But dark below the boughs, The still air of the speechless night, When lovers crown their vows. LIV With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade. LV Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man. Now that other lads than I Strip to bathe on Severn shore, They, no help, for all they try, Tread the mill I trod before. There, when hueless is the west And the darkness hushes wide, Where the lad lies down to rest Stands the troubled dream beside. There, on thoughts that once were mine, Day looks down the eastern steep, And the youth at morning shine Makes the vow he will not keep. LVI THE DAY OF BATTLE "Far I hear the bugle blow To call me where I would not go, And the guns begin the song, 'Soldier, fly or stay for long.'" "Comrade, if to turn and fly Made a soldier never die, Fly I would, for who would not? 'Tis sure no pleasure to be shot." "But since the man that runs away Lives to die another day, And cowards' funerals, when they come Are not wept so well at home." "Therefore, though the best is bad, Stand and do the best my lad; Stand and fight and see your slain, And take the bullet in your brain." LVII You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die for ever. LVIII When I came last to Ludlow Amidst the moonlight pale, Two friends kept step beside me, Two honest lads and hale. Now Dick lies long in the churchyard, And Ned lies long in jail, And I come home to Ludlow Amidst the moonlight pale. LIX THE ISLE OF PORTLAND The star-filled seas are smooth to-night From France to England strown; Black towers above the Portland light The felon-quarried stone. On yonder island, not to rise, Never to stir forth free, Far from his folk a dead lad lies That once was friends with me. Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye; And luckier may you find the night Than ever you found the day. LX Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends and go. Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread, Look not left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night. LXI HUGHLEY STEEPLE The vane on Hughley steeple Veers bright, a far-known sign, And there lie Hughley people, And there lie friends of mine. Tall in their midst the tower Divides the shade and sun, And the clock strikes the hour And tells the time to none. To south the headstones cluster, The sunny mounds lie thick; The dead are more in muster At Hughley than the quick. North, for a soon-told number, Chill graves the sexton delves, And steeple-shadowed slumber The slayers of themselves. To north, to south, lie parted, With Hughley tower above, The kind, the single-hearted, The lads I used to love. And, south or north, 'tis only A choice of friends one knows, And I shall ne'er be lonely Asleep with these or those. LXII "Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad." Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half-way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. 'Tis true the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul's stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. -I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old. LXIII I Hoed and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fair: I brought them home unheeded; The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them For lads like me to find, When I shall lie below them, A dead man out of mind. Some seed the birds devour, And some the season mars, But here and there will flower The solitary stars, And fields will yearly bear them As light-leaved spring comes on, And luckless lads will wear them When I am dead and gone. 
2233	----	[Transcriber's Note for edition 11: in para. 4 of Chapter 19, the word "leafy" has been changed to "leaky". "leafy" was the word used in the printed edition, but was an obvious misprint. Some readers have noted that other editions have slightly different punctuation, notably some extra commas, and semi-colons where there are colons in this edition; but the punctuation herein does follow at least one printed text.--jt] A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse CHAPTER 1. Inasmuch as the scene of this story is that historic pile, Belpher Castle, in the county of Hampshire, it would be an agreeable task to open it with a leisurely description of the place, followed by some notes on the history of the Earls of Marshmoreton, who have owned it since the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, in these days of rush and hurry, a novelist works at a disadvantage. He must leap into the middle of his tale with as little delay as he would employ in boarding a moving tramcar. He must get off the mark with the smooth swiftness of a jack-rabbit surprised while lunching. Otherwise, people throw him aside and go out to picture palaces. I may briefly remark that the present Lord Marshmoreton is a widower of some forty-eight years: that he has two children--a son, Percy Wilbraham Marsh, Lord Belpher, who is on the brink of his twenty-first birthday, and a daughter, Lady Patricia Maud Marsh, who is just twenty: that the chatelaine of the castle is Lady Caroline Byng, Lord Marshmoreton's sister, who married the very wealthy colliery owner, Clifford Byng, a few years before his death (which unkind people say she hastened): and that she has a step-son, Reginald. Give me time to mention these few facts and I am done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not even touch. Luckily, the loss to literature is not irreparable. Lord Marshmoreton himself is engaged upon a history of the family, which will doubtless be on every bookshelf as soon as his lordship gets it finished. And, as for the castle and its surroundings, including the model dairy and the amber drawing-room, you may see them for yourself any Thursday, when Belpher is thrown open to the public on payment of a fee of one shilling a head. The money is collected by Keggs the butler, and goes to a worthy local charity. At least, that is the idea. But the voice of calumny is never silent, and there exists a school of thought, headed by Albert, the page-boy, which holds that Keggs sticks to these shillings like glue, and adds them to his already considerable savings in the Farmers' and Merchants' Bank, on the left side of the High Street in Belpher village, next door to the Oddfellows' Hall. With regard to this, one can only say that Keggs looks far too much like a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices. On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs. We must leave the matter open. Of course, appearances are deceptive. Anyone, for instance, who had been standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleven o'clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake. Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that the middle-aged lady of a determined cast of countenance who was standing near the rose-garden, talking to the gardener and watching the young couple strolling on the terrace below, was the mother of the pretty girl, and that she was smiling because the latter had recently become engaged to the tall, pleasant-faced youth at her side. Sherlock Holmes himself might have been misled. One can hear him explaining the thing to Watson in one of those lightning flashes of inductive reasoning of his. "It is the only explanation, my dear Watson. If the lady were merely complimenting the gardener on his rose-garden, and if her smile were merely caused by the excellent appearance of that rose-garden, there would be an answering smile on the face of the gardener. But, as you see, he looks morose and gloomy." As a matter of fact, the gardener--that is to say, the stocky, brown-faced man in shirt sleeves and corduroy trousers who was frowning into a can of whale-oil solution--was the Earl of Marshmoreton, and there were two reasons for his gloom. He hated to be interrupted while working, and, furthermore, Lady Caroline Byng always got on his nerves, and never more so than when, as now, she speculated on the possibility of a romance between her step-son Reggie and his lordship's daughter Maud. Only his intimates would have recognized in this curious corduroy-trousered figure the seventh Earl of Marshmoreton. The Lord Marshmoreton who made intermittent appearances in London, who lunched among bishops at the Athenaeum Club without exciting remark, was a correctly dressed gentleman whom no one would have suspected of covering his sturdy legs in anything but the finest cloth. But if you will glance at your copy of Who's Who, and turn up the "M's", you will find in the space allotted to the Earl the words "Hobby--Gardening". To which, in a burst of modest pride, his lordship has added "Awarded first prize for Hybrid Teas, Temple Flower Show, 1911". The words tell their own story. Lord Marshmoreton was the most enthusiastic amateur gardener in a land of enthusiastic amateur gardeners. He lived for his garden. The love which other men expend on their nearest and dearest Lord Marshmoreton lavished on seeds, roses and loamy soil. The hatred which some of his order feel for Socialists and Demagogues Lord Marshmoreton kept for rose slugs, rose-beetles and the small, yellowish-white insect which is so depraved and sinister a character that it goes through life with an alias--being sometimes called a rose-hopper and sometimes a thrip. A simple soul, Lord Marshmoreton--mild and pleasant. Yet put him among the thrips, and he became a dealer-out of death and slaughter, a destroyer in the class of Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. Thrips feed on the underside of rose leaves, sucking their juice and causing them to turn yellow; and Lord Marshmoreton's views on these things were so rigid that he would have poured whale-oil solution on his grandmother if he had found her on the underside of one of his rose leaves sucking its juice. The only time in the day when he ceased to be the horny-handed toiler and became the aristocrat was in the evening after dinner, when, egged on by Lady Caroline, who gave him no rest in the matter--he would retire to his private study and work on his History of the Family, assisted by his able secretary, Alice Faraday. His progress on that massive work was, however, slow. Ten hours in the open air make a man drowsy, and too often Lord Marshmoreton would fall asleep in mid-sentence to the annoyance of Miss Faraday, who was a conscientious girl and liked to earn her salary. The couple on the terrace had turned. Reggie Byng's face, as he bent over Maud, was earnest and animated, and even from a distance it was possible to see how the girl's eyes lit up at what he was saying. She was hanging on his words. Lady Caroline's smile became more and more benevolent. "They make a charming pair," she murmured. "I wonder what dear Reggie is saying. Perhaps at this very moment--" She broke off with a sigh of content. She had had her troubles over this affair. Dear Reggie, usually so plastic in her hands, had displayed an unaccountable reluctance to offer his agreeable self to Maud--in spite of the fact that never, not even on the public platform which she adorned so well, had his step-mother reasoned more clearly than she did when pointing out to him the advantages of the match. It was not that Reggie disliked Maud. He admitted that she was a "topper", on several occasions going so far as to describe her as "absolutely priceless". But he seemed reluctant to ask her to marry him. How could Lady Caroline know that Reggie's entire world--or such of it as was not occupied by racing cars and golf--was filled by Alice Faraday? Reggie had never told her. He had not even told Miss Faraday. "Perhaps at this very moment," went on Lady Caroline, "the dear boy is proposing to her." Lord Marshmoreton grunted, and continued to peer with a questioning eye in the awesome brew which he had prepared for the thrips. "One thing is very satisfactory," said Lady Caroline. "I mean that Maud seems entirely to have got over that ridiculous infatuation of hers for that man she met in Wales last summer. She could not be so cheerful if she were still brooding on that. I hope you will admit now, John, that I was right in keeping her practically a prisoner here and never allowing her a chance of meeting the man again either by accident or design. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Stuff! A girl of Maud's age falls in and out of love half a dozen times a year. I feel sure she has almost forgotten the man by now." "Eh?" said Lord Marshmoreton. His mind had been far away, dealing with green flies. "I was speaking about that man Maud met when she was staying with Brenda in Wales." "Oh, yes!" "Oh, yes!" echoed Lady Caroline, annoyed. "Is that the only comment you can find to make? Your only daughter becomes infatuated with a perfect stranger--a man we have never seen--of whom we know nothing, not even his name--nothing except that he is an American and hasn't a penny--Maud admitted that. And all you say is 'Oh, yes'!" "But it's all over now, isn't it? I understood the dashed affair was all over." "We hope so. But I should feel safer if Maud were engaged to Reggie. I do think you might take the trouble to speak to Maud." "Speak to her? I do speak to her." Lord Marshmoreton's brain moved slowly when he was pre-occupied with his roses. "We're on excellent terms." Lady Caroline frowned impatiently. Hers was an alert, vigorous mind, bright and strong like a steel trap, and her brother's vagueness and growing habit of inattention irritated her. "I mean to speak to her about becoming engaged to Reggie. You are her father. Surely you can at least try to persuade her." "Can't coerce a girl." "I never suggested that you should coerce her, as you put it. I merely meant that you could point out to her, as a father, where her duty and happiness lie." "Drink this!" cried his lordship with sudden fury, spraying his can over the nearest bush, and addressing his remark to the invisible thrips. He had forgotten Lady Caroline completely. "Don't stint yourselves! There's lots more!" A girl came down the steps of the castle and made her way towards them. She was a good-looking girl, with an air of quiet efficiency about her. Her eyes were grey and whimsical. Her head was uncovered, and the breeze stirred her dark hair. She made a graceful picture in the morning sunshine, and Reggie Byng, sighting her from the terrace, wobbled in his tracks, turned pink, and lost the thread of his remarks. The sudden appearance of Alice Faraday always affected him like that. "I have copied out the notes you made last night, Lord Marshmoreton. I typed two copies." Alice Faraday spoke in a quiet, respectful, yet subtly authoritative voice. She was a girl of great character. Previous employers of her services as secretary had found her a jewel. To Lord Marshmoreton she was rapidly becoming a perfect incubus. Their views on the relative importance of gardening and family histories did not coincide. To him the history of the Marshmoreton family was the occupation of the idle hour: she seemed to think that he ought to regard it as a life-work. She was always coming and digging him out of the garden and dragging him back to what should have been a purely after-dinner task. It was Lord Marshmoreton's habit, when he awoke after one of his naps too late to resume work, to throw out some vague promise of "attending to it tomorrow"; but, he reflected bitterly, the girl ought to have tact and sense to understand that this was only polite persiflage, and not to be taken literally. "They are very rough," continued Alice, addressing her conversation to the seat of his lordship's corduroy trousers. Lord Marshmoreton always assumed a stooping attitude when he saw Miss Faraday approaching with papers in her hand; for he laboured under a pathetic delusion, of which no amount of failures could rid him, that if she did not see his face she would withdraw. "You remember last night you promised you would attend to them this morning." She paused long enough to receive a non-committal grunt by way of answer. "Of course, if you're busy--" she said placidly, with a half-glance at Lady Caroline. That masterful woman could always be counted on as an ally in these little encounters. "Nothing of the kind!" said Lady Caroline crisply. She was still ruffled by the lack of attention which her recent utterances had received, and welcomed the chance of administering discipline. "Get up at once, John, and go in and work." "I am working," pleaded Lord Marshmoreton. Despite his forty-eight years his sister Caroline still had the power at times to make him feel like a small boy. She had been a great martinet in the days of their mutual nursery. "The Family History is more important than grubbing about in the dirt. I cannot understand why you do not leave this sort of thing to MacPherson. Why you should pay him liberal wages and then do his work for him, I cannot see. You know the publishers are waiting for the History. Go and attend to these notes at once." "You promised you would attend to them this morning, Lord Marshmoreton," said Alice invitingly. Lord Marshmoreton clung to his can of whale-oil solution with the clutch of a drowning man. None knew better than he that these interviews, especially when Caroline was present to lend the weight of her dominating personality, always ended in the same way. "Yes, yes, yes!" he said. "Tonight, perhaps. After dinner, eh? Yes, after dinner. That will be capital." "I think you ought to attend to them this morning," said Alice, gently persistent. It really perturbed this girl to feel that she was not doing work enough to merit her generous salary. And on the subject of the history of the Marshmoreton family she was an enthusiast. It had a glamour for her. Lord Marshmoreton's fingers relaxed their hold. Throughout the rose-garden hundreds of spared thrips went on with their morning meal, unwitting of doom averted. "Oh, all right, all right, all right! Come into the library." "Very well, Lord Marshmoreton." Miss Faraday turned to Lady Caroline. "I have been looking up the trains, Lady Caroline. The best is the twelve-fifteen. It has a dining-car, and stops at Belpher if signalled." "Are you going away, Caroline?" inquired Lord Marshmoreton hopefully. "I am giving a short talk to the Social Progress League at Lewisham. I shall return tomorrow." "Oh!" said Marshmoreton, hope fading from his voice. "Thank you, Miss Faraday," said Lady Caroline. "The twelve-fifteen." "The motor will be round at a quarter to twelve." "Thank you. Oh, by the way, Miss Faraday, will you call to Reggie as you pass, and tell him I wish to speak to him." Maud had left Reggie by the time Alice Faraday reached him, and that ardent youth was sitting on a stone seat, smoking a cigarette and entertaining himself with meditations in which thoughts of Alice competed for precedence with graver reflections connected with the subject of the correct stance for his approach-shots. Reggie's was a troubled spirit these days. He was in love, and he had developed a bad slice with his mid-iron. He was practically a soul in torment. "Lady Caroline asked me to tell you that she wishes to speak to you, Mr. Byng." Reggie leaped from his seat. "Hullo-ullo-ullo! There you are! I mean to say, what?" He was conscious, as was his custom in her presence, of a warm, prickly sensation in the small of the back. Some kind of elephantiasis seemed to have attacked his hands and feet, swelling them to enormous proportions. He wished profoundly that he could get rid of his habit of yelping with nervous laughter whenever he encountered the girl of his dreams. It was calculated to give her a wrong impression of a chap--make her think him a fearful chump and what not! "Lady Caroline is leaving by the twelve-fifteen." "That's good! What I mean to say is--oh, she is, is she? I see what you mean." The absolute necessity of saying something at least moderately coherent gripped him. He rallied his forces. "You wouldn't care to come for a stroll, after I've seen the mater, or a row on the lake, or any rot like that, would you?" "Thank you very much, but I must go in and help Lord Marshmoreton with his book." "What a rotten--I mean, what a dam' shame!" The pity of it tore at Reggie's heart strings. He burned with generous wrath against Lord Marshmoreton, that modern Simon Legree, who used his capitalistic power to make a slave of this girl and keep her toiling indoors when all the world was sunshine. "Shall I go and ask him if you can't put it off till after dinner?" "Oh, no, thanks very much. I'm sure Lord Marshmoreton wouldn't dream of it." She passed on with a pleasant smile. When he had recovered from the effect of this Reggie proceeded slowly to the upper level to meet his step-mother. "Hullo, mater. Pretty fit and so forth? What did you want to see me about?" "Well, Reggie, what is the news?" "Eh? What? News? Didn't you get hold of a paper at breakfast? Nothing much in it. Tam Duggan beat Alec Fraser three up and two to play at Prestwick. I didn't notice anything else much. There's a new musical comedy at the Regal. Opened last night, and seems to be just like mother makes. The Morning Post gave it a topping notice. I must trickle up to town and see it some time this week." Lady Caroline frowned. This slowness in the uptake, coming so soon after her brother's inattention, displeased her. "No, no, no. I mean you and Maud have been talking to each other for quite a long time, and she seemed very interested in what you were saying. I hoped you might have some good news for me." Reggie's face brightened. He caught her drift. "Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean. No, there wasn't anything of that sort or shape or order." "What were you saying to her, then, that interested her so much?" "I was explaining how I landed dead on the pin with my spoon out of a sand-trap at the eleventh hole yesterday. It certainly was a pretty ripe shot, considering. I'd sliced into this baby bunker, don't you know; I simply can't keep 'em straight with the iron nowadays--and there the pill was, grinning up at me from the sand. Of course, strictly speaking, I ought to have used a niblick, but--" "Do you mean to say, Reggie, that, with such an excellent opportunity, you did not ask Maud to marry you?" "I see what you mean. Well, as a matter of absolute fact, I, as it were, didn't." Lady Caroline uttered a wordless sound. "By the way, mater," said Reggie, "I forgot to tell you about that. It's all off." "What!" "Absolutely. You see, it appears there's a chappie unknown for whom Maud has an absolute pash. It seems she met this sportsman up in Wales last summer. She was caught in the rain, and he happened to be passing and rallied round with his rain-coat, and one thing led to another. Always raining in Wales, what! Good fishing, though, here and there. Well, what I mean is, this cove was so deucedly civil, and all that, that now she won't look at anybody else. He's the blue-eyed boy, and everybody else is an also-ran, with about as much chance as a blind man with one arm trying to get out of a bunker with a tooth-pick." "What perfect nonsense! I know all about that affair. It was just a passing fancy that never meant anything. Maud has got over that long ago." "She didn't seem to think so." "Now, Reggie," said Lady Caroline tensely, "please listen to me. You know that the castle will be full of people in a day or two for Percy's coming-of-age, and this next few days may be your last chance of having a real, long, private talk with Maud. I shall be seriously annoyed if you neglect this opportunity. There is no excuse for the way you are behaving. Maud is a charming girl--" "Oh, absolutely! One of the best." "Very well, then!" "But, mater, what I mean to say is--" "I don't want any more temporizing, Reggie!" "No, no! Absolutely not!" said Reggie dutifully, wishing he knew what the word meant, and wishing also that life had not become so frightfully complex. "Now, this afternoon, why should you not take Maud for a long ride in your car?" Reggie grew more cheerful. At least he had an answer for that. "Can't be done, I'm afraid. I've got to motor into town to meet Percy. He's arriving from Oxford this morning. I promised to meet him in town and tool him back in the car." "I see. Well, then, why couldn't you--?" "I say, mater, dear old soul," said Reggie hastily, "I think you'd better tear yourself away and what not. If you're catching the twelve-fifteen, you ought to be staggering round to see you haven't forgotten anything. There's the car coming round now." "I wish now I had decided to go by a later train." "No, no, mustn't miss the twelve-fifteen. Good, fruity train. Everybody speaks well of it. Well, see you anon, mater. I think you'd better run like a hare." "You will remember what I said?" "Oh, absolutely!" "Good-bye, then. I shall be back tomorrow." Reggie returned slowly to his stone seat. He breathed a little heavily as he felt for his cigarette case. He felt like a hunted fawn. Maud came out of the house as the car disappeared down the long avenue of elms. She crossed the terrace to where Reggie sat brooding on life and its problem. "Reggie!" Reggie turned. "Hullo, Maud, dear old thing. Take a seat." Maud sat down beside him. There was a flush on her pretty face, and when she spoke her voice quivered with suppressed excitement. "Reggie," she said, laying a small hand on his arm. "We're friends, aren't we?" Reggie patted her back paternally. There were few people he liked better than Maud. "Always have been since the dear old days of childhood, what!" "I can trust you, can't I?" "Absolutely!" "There's something I want you to do for me, Reggie. You'll have to keep it a dead secret of course." "The strong, silent man. That's me. What is it?" "You're driving into town in your car this afternoon, aren't you, to meet Percy?" "That was the idea." "Could you go this morning instead--and take me?" "Of course." Maud shook her head. "You don't know what you are letting yourself in for, Reggie, or I'm sure you wouldn't agree so lightly. I'm not allowed to leave the castle, you know, because of what I was telling you about." "The chappie?" "Yes. So there would be terrible scenes if anybody found out." "Never mind, dear old soul. I'll risk it. None shall learn your secret from these lips." "You're a darling, Reggie." "But what's the idea? Why do you want to go today particularly?" Maud looked over her shoulder. "Because--" She lowered her voice, though there was no one near. "Because he is back in London! He's a sort of secretary, you know, Reggie, to his uncle, and I saw in the paper this morning that the uncle returned yesterday after a long voyage in his yacht. So--he must have come back, too. He has to go everywhere his uncle goes." "And everywhere the uncle went, the chappie was sure to go!" murmured Reggie. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt." "I must see him. I haven't seen him since last summer--nearly a whole year! And he hasn't written to me, and I haven't dared to write to him, for fear of the letter going wrong. So, you see, I must go. Today's my only chance. Aunt Caroline has gone away. Father will be busy in the garden, and won't notice whether I'm here or not. And, besides, tomorrow it will be too late, because Percy will be here. He was more furious about the thing than anyone." "Rather the proud aristocrat, Percy," agreed Reggie. "I understand absolutely. Tell me just what you want me to do." "I want you to pick me up in the car about half a mile down the road. You can drop me somewhere in Piccadilly. That will be near enough to where I want to go. But the most important thing is about Percy. You must persuade him to stay and dine in town and come back here after dinner. Then I shall be able to get back by an afternoon train, and no one will know I've been gone." "That's simple enough, what? Consider it done. When do you want to start?" "At once." "I'll toddle round to the garage and fetch the car." Reggie chuckled amusedly. "Rum thing! The mater's just been telling me I ought to take you for a drive." "You are a darling, Reggie, really!" Reggie gave her back another paternal pat. "I know what it means to be in love, dear old soul. I say, Maud, old thing, do you find love puts you off your stroke? What I mean is, does it make you slice your approach-shots?" Maud laughed. "No. It hasn't had any effect on my game so far. I went round in eighty-six the other day." Reggie sighed enviously. "Women are wonderful!" he said. "Well, I'll be legging it and fetching the car. When you're ready, stroll along down the road and wait for me." * * * When he had gone Maud pulled a small newspaper clipping from her pocket. She had extracted it from yesterday's copy of the Morning Post's society column. It contained only a few words: "Mr. Wilbur Raymond has returned to his residence at No. 11a Belgrave Square from a prolonged voyage in his yacht, the Siren." Maud did not know Mr. Wilbur Raymond, and yet that paragraph had sent the blood tingling through every vein in her body. For as she had indicated to Reggie, when the Wilbur Raymonds of this world return to their town residences, they bring with them their nephew and secretary, Geoffrey Raymond. And Geoffrey Raymond was the man Maud had loved ever since the day when she had met him in Wales. CHAPTER 2. The sun that had shone so brightly on Belpher Castle at noon, when Maud and Reggie Byng set out on their journey, shone on the West-End of London with equal pleasantness at two o'clock. In Little Gooch Street all the children of all the small shopkeepers who support life in that backwater by selling each other vegetables and singing canaries were out and about playing curious games of their own invention. Cats washed themselves on doorsteps, preparatory to looking in for lunch at one of the numerous garbage cans which dotted the sidewalk. Waiters peered austerely from the windows of the two Italian restaurants which carry on the Lucretia Borgia tradition by means of one shilling and sixpenny _table d'hôte_ luncheons. The proprietor of the grocery store on the corner was bidding a silent farewell to a tomato which even he, though a dauntless optimist, had been compelled to recognize as having outlived its utility. On all these things the sun shone with a genial smile. Round the corner, in Shaftesbury Avenue, an east wind was doing its best to pierce the hardened hides of the citizenry; but it did not penetrate into Little Gooch Street, which, facing south and being narrow and sheltered, was enabled practically to bask. Mac, the stout guardian of the stage door of the Regal Theatre, whose gilded front entrance is on the Avenue, emerged from the little glass case in which the management kept him, and came out to observe life and its phenomena with an indulgent eye. Mac was feeling happy this morning. His job was a permanent one, not influenced by the success or failure of the productions which followed one another at the theatre throughout the year; but he felt, nevertheless, a sort of proprietary interest in these ventures, and was pleased when they secured the approval of the public. Last night's opening, a musical piece by an American author and composer, had undoubtedly made a big hit, and Mac was glad, because he liked what he had seen of the company, and, in the brief time in which he had known him, had come to entertain a warm regard for George Bevan, the composer, who had travelled over from New York to help with the London production. George Bevan turned the corner now, walking slowly, and, it seemed to Mac, gloomily towards the stage door. He was a young man of about twenty-seven, tall and well knit, with an agreeable, clean-cut face, of which a pair of good and honest eyes were the most noticeable feature. His sensitive mouth was drawn down a little at the corners, and he looked tired. "Morning, Mac." "Good morning, sir." "Anything for me?" "Yes, sir. Some telegrams. I'll get 'em. Oh, I'll _get_ 'em," said Mac, as if reassuring some doubting friend and supporter as to his ability to carry through a labour of Hercules. He disappeared into his glass case. George Bevan remained outside in the street surveying the frisking children with a sombre glance. They seemed to him very noisy, very dirty and very young. Disgustingly young. Theirs was joyous, exuberant youth which made a fellow feel at least sixty. Something was wrong with George today, for normally he was fond of children. Indeed, normally he was fond of most things. He was a good-natured and cheerful young man, who liked life and the great majority of those who lived it contemporaneously with himself. He had no enemies and many friends. But today he had noticed from the moment he had got out of bed that something was amiss with the world. Either he was in the grip of some divine discontent due to the highly developed condition of his soul, or else he had a grouch. One of the two. Or it might have been the reaction from the emotions of the previous night. On the morning after an opening your sensitive artist is always apt to feel as if he had been dried over a barrel. Besides, last night there had been a supper party after the performance at the flat which the comedian of the troupe had rented in Jermyn Street, a forced, rowdy supper party where a number of tired people with over-strained nerves had seemed to feel it a duty to be artificially vivacious. It had lasted till four o'clock when the morning papers with the notices arrived, and George had not got to bed till four-thirty. These things colour the mental outlook. Mac reappeared. "Here you are, sir." "Thanks." George put the telegrams in his pocket. A cat, on its way back from lunch, paused beside him in order to use his leg as a serviette. George tickled it under the ear abstractedly. He was always courteous to cats, but today he went through the movements perfunctorily and without enthusiasm. The cat moved on. Mac became conversational. "They tell me the piece was a hit last night, sir." "It seemed to go very well." "My Missus saw it from the gallery, and all the first-nighters was speaking very 'ighly of it. There's a regular click, you know, sir, over here in London, that goes to all the first nights in the gallery. 'Ighly critical they are always. Specially if it's an American piece like this one. If they don't like it, they precious soon let you know. My missus ses they was all speakin' very 'ighly of it. My missus says she ain't seen a livelier show for a long time, and she's a great theatregoer. My missus says they was all specially pleased with the music." "That's good." "The Morning Leader give it a fine write-up. How was the rest of the papers?" "Splendid, all of them. I haven't seen the evening papers yet. I came out to get them." Mac looked down the street. "There'll be a rehearsal this afternoon, I suppose, sir? Here's Miss Dore coming along." George followed his glance. A tall girl in a tailor-made suit of blue was coming towards them. Even at a distance one caught the genial personality of the new arrival. It seemed to go before her like a heartening breeze. She picked her way carefully through the children crawling on the side walk. She stopped for a moment and said something to one of them. The child grinned. Even the proprietor of the grocery store appeared to brighten up at the sight of her, as at the sight of some old friend. "How's business, Bill?" she called to him as she passed the spot where he stood brooding on the mortality of tomatoes. And, though he replied "Rotten", a faint, grim smile did nevertheless flicker across his tragic mask. Billie Dore, who was one of the chorus of George Bevan's musical comedy, had an attractive face, a mouth that laughed readily, rather bright golden hair (which, she was fond of insisting with perfect truth, was genuine though appearances were against it), and steady blue eyes. The latter were frequently employed by her in quelling admirers who were encouraged by the former to become too ardent. Billie's views on the opposite sex who forgot themselves were as rigid as those of Lord Marshmoreton concerning thrips. She liked men, and she would signify this liking in a practical manner by lunching and dining with them, but she was entirely self-supporting, and when men overlooked that fact she reminded them of it in no uncertain voice; for she was a girl of ready speech and direct. "'Morning, George. 'Morning, Mac. Any mail?" "I'll see, miss." "How did your better four-fifths like the show, Mac?" "I was just telling Mr. Bevan, miss, that the missus said she 'adn't seen a livelier show for a long time." "Fine. I knew I'd be a hit. Well, George, how's the boy this bright afternoon?" "Limp and pessimistic." "That comes of sitting up till four in the morning with festive hams." "You were up as late as I was, and you look like Little Eva after a night of sweet, childish slumber." "Yes, but I drank ginger ale, and didn't smoke eighteen cigars. And yet, I don't know. I think I must be getting old, George. All-night parties seem to have lost their charm. I was ready to quit at one o'clock, but it didn't seem matey. I think I'll marry a farmer and settle down." George was amazed. He had not expected to find his present view of life shared in this quarter. "I was just thinking myself," he said, feeling not for the first time how different Billie was from the majority of those with whom his profession brought him in contact, "how flat it all was. The show business I mean, and these darned first nights, and the party after the show which you can't sidestep. Something tells me I'm about through." Billie Dore nodded. "Anybody with any sense is always about through with the show business. I know I am. If you think I'm wedded to my art, let me tell you I'm going to get a divorce the first chance that comes along. It's funny about the show business. The way one drifts into it and sticks, I mean. Take me, for example. Nature had it all doped out for me to be the Belle of Hicks Corners. What I ought to have done was to buy a gingham bonnet and milk cows. But I would come to the great city and help brighten up the tired business man." "I didn't know you were fond of the country, Billie." "Me? I wrote the words and music. Didn't you know I was a country kid? My dad ran a Bide a Wee Home for flowers, and I used to know them all by their middle names. He was a nursery gardener out in Indiana. I tell you, when I see a rose nowadays, I shake its hand and say: 'Well, well, Cyril, how's everything with you? And how are Joe and Jack and Jimmy and all the rest of the boys at home?' Do you know how I used to put in my time the first few nights I was over here in London? I used to hang around Covent Garden with my head back, sniffing. The boys that mess about with the flowers there used to stub their toes on me so often that they got to look on me as part of the scenery." "That's where we ought to have been last night." "We'd have had a better time. Say, George, did you see the awful mistake on Nature's part that Babe Sinclair showed up with towards the middle of the proceedings? You must have noticed him, because he took up more room than any one man was entitled to. His name was Spenser Gray." George recalled having been introduced to a fat man of his own age who answered to that name. "It's a darned shame," said Billie indignantly. "Babe is only a kid. This is the first show she's been in. And I happen to know there's an awfully nice boy over in New York crazy to marry her. And I'm certain this gink is giving her a raw deal. He tried to get hold of me about a week ago, but I turned him down hard; and I suppose he thinks Babe is easier. And it's no good talking to her; she thinks he's wonderful. That's another kick I have against the show business. It seems to make girls such darned chumps. Well, I wonder how much longer Mr. Arbuckle is going to be retrieving my mail. What ho, within there, Fatty!" Mac came out, apologetic, carrying letters. "Sorry, miss. By an oversight I put you among the G's." "All's well that ends well. 'Put me among the G's.' There's a good title for a song for you, George. Excuse me while I grapple with the correspondence. I'll bet half of these are mash notes. I got three between the first and second acts last night. Why the nobility and gentry of this burg should think that I'm their affinity just because I've got golden hair--which is perfectly genuine, Mac; I can show you the pedigree--and because I earn an honest living singing off the key, is more than I can understand." Mac leaned his massive shoulders comfortably against the building, and resumed his chat. "I expect you're feeling very 'appy today, sir?" George pondered. He was certainly feeling better since he had seen Billie Dore, but he was far from being himself. "I ought to be, I suppose. But I'm not." "Ah, you're getting blarzy, sir, that's what it is. You've 'ad too much of the fat, you 'ave. This piece was a big 'it in America, wasn't it?" "Yes. It ran over a year in New York, and there are three companies of it out now." "That's 'ow it is, you see. You've gone and got blarzy. Too big a 'elping of success, you've 'ad." Mac wagged a head like a harvest moon. "You aren't a married man, are you, sir?" Billie Dore finished skimming through her mail, and crumpled the letters up into a large ball, which she handed to Mac. "Here's something for you to read in your spare moments, Mac. Glance through them any time you have a suspicion you may be a chump, and you'll have the comfort of knowing that there are others. What were you saying about being married?" "Mr. Bevan and I was 'aving a talk about 'im being blarzy, miss." "Are you blarzy, George?" "So Mac says." "And why is he blarzy, miss?" demanded Mac rhetorically. "Don't ask me," said Billie. "It's not my fault." "It's because, as I was saying, 'e's 'ad too big a 'elping of success, and because 'e ain't a married man. You did say you wasn't a married man, didn't you, sir?" "I didn't. But I'm not." "That's 'ow it is, you see. You pretty soon gets sick of pulling off good things, if you ain't got nobody to pat you on the back for doing of it. Why, when I was single, if I got 'old of a sure thing for the three o'clock race and picked up a couple of quid, the thrill of it didn't seem to linger somehow. But now, if some of the gentlemen that come 'ere put me on to something safe and I make a bit, 'arf the fascination of it is taking the stuff 'ome and rolling it on to the kitchen table and 'aving 'er pat me on the back." "How about when you lose?" "I don't tell 'er," said Mac simply. "You seem to understand the art of being happy, Mac." "It ain't an art, sir. It's just gettin' 'old of the right little woman, and 'aving a nice little 'ome of your own to go back to at night." "Mac," said Billie admiringly, "you talk like a Tin Pan Alley song hit, except that you've left out the scent of honeysuckle and Old Mister Moon climbing up over the trees. Well, you're quite right. I'm all for the simple and domestic myself. If I could find the right man, and he didn't see me coming and duck, I'd become one of the Mendelssohn's March Daughters right away. Are you going, George? There's a rehearsal at two-thirty for cuts." "I want to get the evening papers and send off a cable or two. See you later." "We shall meet at Philippi." Mac eyed George's retreating back till he had turned the corner. "A nice pleasant gentleman, Mr. Bevan," he said. "Too bad 'e's got the pip the way 'e 'as, just after 'avin' a big success like this 'ere. Comes of bein' a artist, I suppose." Miss Dore dived into her vanity case and produced a puff with which she proceeded to powder her nose. "All composers are nuts, Mac. I was in a show once where the manager was panning the composer because there wasn't a number in the score that had a tune to it. The poor geek admitted they weren't very tuney, but said the thing about his music was that it had such a wonderful aroma. They all get that way. The jazz seems to go to their heads. George is all right, though, and don't let anyone tell you different." "Have you know him long, miss?" "About five years. I was a stenographer in the house that published his songs when I first met him. And there's another thing you've got to hand it to George for. He hasn't let success give him a swelled head. The money that boy makes is sinful, Mac. He wears thousand dollar bills next to his skin winter and summer. But he's just the same as he was when I first knew him, when he was just hanging around Broadway, looking out for a chance to be allowed to slip a couple of interpolated numbers into any old show that came along. Yes. Put it in your diary, Mac, and write it on your cuff, George Bevan's all right. He's an ace." Unconscious of these eulogies, which, coming from one whose judgment he respected, might have cheered him up, George wandered down Shaftesbury Avenue feeling more depressed than ever. The sun had gone in for the time being, and the east wind was frolicking round him like a playful puppy, patting him with a cold paw, nuzzling his ankles, bounding away and bounding back again, and behaving generally as east winds do when they discover a victim who has come out without his spring overcoat. It was plain to George now that the sun and the wind were a couple of confidence tricksters working together as a team. The sun had disarmed him with specious promises and an air of cheery goodfellowship, and had delivered him into the hands of the wind, which was now going through him with the swift thoroughness of the professional hold-up artist. He quickened his steps, and began to wonder if he was so sunk in senile decay as to have acquired a liver. He discarded the theory as repellent. And yet there must be a reason for his depression. Today of all days, as Mac had pointed out, he had everything to make him happy. Popular as he was in America, this was the first piece of his to be produced in London, and there was no doubt that it was a success of unusual dimensions. And yet he felt no elation. He reached Piccadilly and turned westwards. And then, as he passed the gates of the In and Out Club, he had a moment of clear vision and understood everything. He was depressed because he was bored, and he was bored because he was lonely. Mac, that solid thinker, had been right. The solution of the problem of life was to get hold of the right girl and have a home to go back to at night. He was mildly surprised that he had tried in any other direction for an explanation of his gloom. It was all the more inexplicable in that fully 80 per cent of the lyrics which he had set in the course of his musical comedy career had had that thought at the back of them. George gave himself up to an orgy of sentimentality. He seemed to be alone in the world which had paired itself off into a sort of seething welter of happy couples. Taxicabs full of happy couples rolled by every minute. Passing omnibuses creaked beneath the weight of happy couples. The very policeman across the Street had just grinned at a flitting shop girl, and she had smiled back at him. The only female in London who did not appear to be attached was a girl in brown who was coming along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, looking about her in a manner that suggested that she found Piccadilly a new and stimulating spectacle. As far as George could see she was an extremely pretty girl, small and dainty, with a proud little tilt to her head and the jaunty walk that spoke of perfect health. She was, in fact, precisely the sort of girl that George felt he could love with all the stored-up devotion of an old buffer of twenty-seven who had squandered none of his rich nature in foolish flirtations. He had just begun to weave a rose-tinted romance about their two selves, when a cold reaction set in. Even as he paused to watch the girl threading her way through the crowd, the east wind jabbed an icy finger down the back of his neck, and the chill of it sobered him. After all, he reflected bitterly, this girl was only alone because she was on her way somewhere to meet some confounded man. Besides there was no earthly chance of getting to know her. You can't rush up to pretty girls in the street and tell them you are lonely. At least, you can, but it doesn't get you anywhere except the police station. George's gloom deepened--a thing he would not have believed possible a moment before. He felt that he had been born too late. The restraints of modern civilization irked him. It was not, he told himself, like this in the good old days. In the Middle Ages, for example, this girl would have been a Damsel; and in that happy time practically everybody whose technical rating was that of Damsel was in distress and only too willing to waive the formalities in return for services rendered by the casual passer-by. But the twentieth century is a prosaic age, when girls are merely girls and have no troubles at all. Were he to stop this girl in brown and assure her that his aid and comfort were at her disposal, she would undoubtedly call that large policeman from across the way, and the romance would begin and end within the space of thirty seconds, or, if the policeman were a quick mover, rather less. Better to dismiss dreams and return to the practical side of life by buying the evening papers from the shabby individual beside him, who had just thrust an early edition in his face. After all notices are notices, even when the heart is aching. George felt in his pocket for the necessary money, found emptiness, and remembered that he had left all his ready funds at his hotel. It was just one of the things he might have expected on a day like this. The man with the papers had the air of one whose business is conducted on purely cash principles. There was only one thing to be done, return to the hotel, retrieve his money, and try to forget the weight of the world and its cares in lunch. And from the hotel he could despatch the two or three cables which he wanted to send to New York. The girl in brown was quite close now, and George was enabled to get a clearer glimpse of her. She more than fulfilled the promise she had given at a distance. Had she been constructed to his own specifications, she would not have been more acceptable in George's sight. And now she was going out of his life for ever. With an overwhelming sense of pathos, for there is no pathos more bitter than that of parting from someone we have never met, George hailed a taxicab which crawled at the side of the road; and, with all the refrains of all the sentimental song hits he had ever composed ringing in his ears, he got in and passed away. "A rotten world," he mused, as the cab, after proceeding a couple of yards, came to a standstill in a block of the traffic. "A dull, flat bore of a world, in which nothing happens or ever will happen. Even when you take a cab it just sticks and doesn't move." At this point the door of the cab opened, and the girl in brown jumped in. "I'm so sorry," she said breathlessly, "but would you mind hiding me, please." CHAPTER 3. George hid her. He did it, too, without wasting precious time by asking questions. In a situation which might well have thrown the quickest-witted of men off his balance, he acted with promptitude, intelligence and despatch. The fact is, George had for years been an assiduous golfer; and there is no finer school for teaching concentration and a strict attention to the matter in hand. Few crises, however unexpected, have the power to disturb a man who has so conquered the weakness of the flesh as to have trained himself to bend his left knee, raise his left heel, swing his arms well out from the body, twist himself into the shape of a corkscrew and use the muscle of the wrist, at the same time keeping his head still and his eye on the ball. It is estimated that there are twenty-three important points to be borne in mind simultaneously while making a drive at golf; and to the man who has mastered the art of remembering them all the task of hiding girls in taxicabs is mere child's play. To pull down the blinds on the side of the vehicle nearest the kerb was with George the work of a moment. Then he leaned out of the centre window in such a manner as completely to screen the interior of the cab from public view. "Thank you so much," murmured a voice behind him. It seemed to come from the floor. "Not at all," said George, trying a sort of vocal chip-shot out of the corner of his mouth, designed to lift his voice backwards and lay it dead inside the cab. He gazed upon Piccadilly with eyes from which the scales had fallen. Reason told him that he was still in Piccadilly. Otherwise it would have seemed incredible to him that this could be the same street which a moment before he had passed judgment upon and found flat and uninteresting. True, in its salient features it had altered little. The same number of stodgy-looking people moved up and down. The buildings retained their air of not having had a bath since the days of the Tudors. The east wind still blew. But, though superficially the same, in reality Piccadilly had altered completely. Before it had been just Piccadilly. Now it was a golden street in the City of Romance, a main thoroughfare of Bagdad, one of the principal arteries of the capital of Fairyland. A rose-coloured mist swam before George's eyes. His spirits, so low but a few moments back, soared like a good niblick shot out of the bunker of Gloom. The years fell away from him till, in an instant, from being a rather poorly preserved, liverish greybeard of sixty-five or so, he became a sprightly lad of twenty-one in a world of springtime and flowers and laughing brooks. In other words, taking it by and large, George felt pretty good. The impossible had happened; Heaven had sent him an adventure, and he didn't care if it snowed. It was possibly the rose-coloured mist before his eyes that prevented him from observing the hurried approach of a faultlessly attired young man, aged about twenty-one, who during George's preparations for ensuring privacy in his cab had been galloping in pursuit in a resolute manner that suggested a well-dressed bloodhound somewhat overfed and out of condition. Only when this person stopped and began to pant within a few inches of his face did he become aware of his existence. "You, sir!" said the bloodhound, removing a gleaming silk hat, mopping a pink forehead, and replacing the luminous superstructure once more in position. "You, sir!" Whatever may be said of the possibility of love at first sight, in which theory George was now a confirmed believer, there can be no doubt that an exactly opposite phenomenon is of frequent occurrence. After one look at some people even friendship is impossible. Such a one, in George's opinion, was this gurgling excrescence underneath the silk hat. He comprised in his single person practically all the qualities which George disliked most. He was, for a young man, extraordinarily obese. Already a second edition of his chin had been published, and the perfectly-cut morning coat which encased his upper section bulged out in an opulent semi-circle. He wore a little moustache, which to George's prejudiced eye seemed more a complaint than a moustache. His face was red, his manner dictatorial, and he was touched in the wind. Take him for all in all he looked like a bit of bad news. George had been educated at Lawrenceville and Harvard, and had subsequently had the privilege of mixing socially with many of New York's most prominent theatrical managers; so he knew how to behave himself. No Vere de Vere could have exhibited greater repose of manner. "And what," he inquired suavely, leaning a little further out of the cab, "is eating you, Bill?" A messenger boy, two shabby men engaged in non-essential industries, and a shop girl paused to observe the scene. Time was not of the essence to these confirmed sightseers. The shop girl was late already, so it didn't matter if she was any later; the messenger boy had nothing on hand except a message marked "Important: Rush"; and as for the two shabby men, their only immediate plans consisted of a vague intention of getting to some public house and leaning against the wall; so George's time was their time. One of the pair put his head on one side and said: "What ho!"; the other picked up a cigar stub from the gutter and began to smoke. "A young lady just got into your cab," said the stout young man. "Surely not?" said George. "What the devil do you mean--surely not?" "I've been in the cab all the time, and I should have noticed it." At this juncture the block in the traffic was relieved, and the cab bowled smartly on for some fifty yards when it was again halted. George, protruding from the window like a snail, was entertained by the spectacle of the pursuit. The hunt was up. Short of throwing his head up and baying, the stout young man behaved exactly as a bloodhound in similar circumstances would have conducted itself. He broke into a jerky gallop, attended by his self-appointed associates; and, considering that the young man was so stout, that the messenger boy considered it unprofessional to hurry, that the shop girl had doubts as to whether sprinting was quite ladylike, and that the two Bohemians were moving at a quicker gait than a shuffle for the first occasion in eleven years, the cavalcade made good time. The cab was still stationary when they arrived in a body. "Here he is, guv'nor," said the messenger boy, removing a bead of perspiration with the rush message. "Here he is, guv'nor," said the non-smoking Bohemian. "What oh!" "Here I am!" agreed George affably. "And what can I do for you?" The smoker spat appreciatively at a passing dog. The point seemed to him well taken. Not for many a day had he so enjoyed himself. In an arid world containing too few goes of gin and too many policemen, a world in which the poor were oppressed and could seldom even enjoy a quiet cigar without having their fingers trodden upon, he found himself for the moment contented, happy, and expectant. This looked like a row between toffs, and of all things which most intrigued him a row between toffs ranked highest. "R!" he said approvingly. "Now you're torkin'!" The shop girl had espied an acquaintance in the crowd. She gave tongue. "Mordee! Cummere! Cummere quick! Sumfin' hap'nin'!" Maudie, accompanied by perhaps a dozen more of London's millions, added herself to the audience. These all belonged to the class which will gather round and watch silently while a motorist mends a tyre. They are not impatient. They do not call for rapid and continuous action. A mere hole in the ground, which of all sights is perhaps the least vivid and dramatic, is enough to grip their attention for hours at a time. They stared at George and George's cab with unblinking gaze. They did not know what would happen or when it would happen, but they intended to wait till something did happen. It might be for years or it might be for ever, but they meant to be there when things began to occur. Speculations became audible. "Wot is it? 'Naccident?" "Nah! Gent 'ad 'is pocket picked!" "Two toffs 'ad a scrap!" "Feller bilked the cabman!" A sceptic made a cynical suggestion. "They're doin' of it for the pictures." The idea gained instant popularity. "Jear that? It's a fillum!" "Wot o', Charlie!" "The kemerer's 'idden in the keb." "Wot'll they be up to next!" A red-nosed spectator with a tray of collar-studs harnessed to his stomach started another school of thought. He spoke with decision as one having authority. "Nothin' of the blinkin' kind! The fat 'un's bin 'avin' one or two around the corner, and it's gorn and got into 'is 'ead!" The driver of the cab, who till now had been ostentatiously unaware that there was any sort of disturbance among the lower orders, suddenly became humanly inquisitive. "What's it all about?" he asked, swinging around and addressing George's head. "Exactly what I want to know," said George. He indicated the collar-stud merchant. "The gentleman over there with the portable Woolworth-bargain-counter seems to me to have the best theory." The stout young man, whose peculiar behaviour had drawn all this flattering attention from the many-headed and who appeared considerably ruffled by the publicity, had been puffing noisily during the foregoing conversation. Now, having recovered sufficient breath to resume the attack, he addressed himself to George once more. "Damn you, sir, will you let me look inside that cab?" "Leave me," said George, "I would be alone." "There is a young lady in that cab. I saw her get in, and I have been watching ever since, and she has not got out, so she is there now." George nodded approval of this close reasoning. "Your argument seems to be without a flaw. But what then? We applaud the Man of Logic, but what of the Man of Action? What are you going to do about it?" "Get out of my way!" "I won't." "Then I'll force my way in!" "If you try it, I shall infallibly bust you one on the jaw." The stout young man drew back a pace. "You can't do that sort of thing, you know." "I know I can't," said George, "but I shall. In this life, my dear sir, we must be prepared for every emergency. We must distinguish between the unusual and the impossible. It would be unusual for a comparative stranger to lean out of a cab window and sock you one, but you appear to have laid your plans on the assumption that it would be impossible. Let this be a lesson to you!" "I tell you what it is--" "The advice I give to every young man starting life is 'Never confuse the unusual with the impossible!' Take the present case, for instance. If you had only realized the possibility of somebody some day busting you on the jaw when you tried to get into a cab, you might have thought out dozens of crafty schemes for dealing with the matter. As it is, you are unprepared. The thing comes on you as a surprise. The whisper flies around the clubs: 'Poor old What's-his-name has been taken unawares. He cannot cope with the situation!'" The man with the collar-studs made another diagnosis. He was seeing clearer and clearer into the thing every minute. "Looney!" he decided. "This 'ere one's bin moppin' of it up, and the one in the keb's orf 'is bloomin' onion. That's why 'e 's standin' up instead of settin'. 'E won't set down 'cept you bring 'im a bit o' toast, 'cos he thinks 'e 's a poached egg." George beamed upon the intelligent fellow. "Your reasoning is admirable, but--" He broke off here, not because he had not more to say, but for the reason that the stout young man, now in quite a Berserk frame of mind, made a sudden spring at the cab door and clutched the handle, which he was about to wrench when George acted with all the promptitude and decision which had marked his behaviour from the start. It was a situation which called for the nicest judgment. To allow the assailant free play with the handle or even to wrestle with him for its possession entailed the risk that the door might open and reveal the girl. To bust the young man on the jaw, as promised, on the other hand, was not in George's eyes a practical policy. Excellent a deterrent as the threat of such a proceeding might be, its actual accomplishment was not to be thought of. Gaols yawn and actions for assault lie in wait for those who go about the place busting their fellows on the jaw. No. Something swift, something decided and immediate was indicated, but something that stopped short of technical battery. George brought his hand round with a sweep and knocked the stout young man's silk hat off. The effect was magical. We all of us have our Achilles heel, and--paradoxically enough--in the case of the stout young man that heel was his hat. Superbly built by the only hatter in London who can construct a silk hat that is a silk hat, and freshly ironed by loving hands but a brief hour before at the only shaving-parlour in London where ironing is ironing and not a brutal attack, it was his pride and joy. To lose it was like losing his trousers. It made him feel insufficiently clad. With a passionate cry like that of some wild creature deprived of its young, the erstwhile Berserk released the handle and sprang in pursuit. At the same moment the traffic moved on again. The last George saw was a group scene with the stout young man in the middle of it. The hat had been popped up into the infield, where it had been caught by the messenger boy. The stout young man was bending over it and stroking it with soothing fingers. It was too far off for anything to be audible, but he seemed to George to be murmuring words of endearment to it. Then, placing it on his head, he darted out into the road and George saw him no more. The audience remained motionless, staring at the spot where the incident had happened. They would continue to do this till the next policeman came along and moved them on. With a pleasant wave of farewell, in case any of them might be glancing in his direction, George drew in his body and sat down. The girl in brown had risen from the floor, if she had ever been there, and was now seated composedly at the further end of the cab. CHAPTER 4. "Well, that's that!" said George. "I'm so much obliged," said the girl. "It was a pleasure," said George. He was enabled now to get a closer, more leisurely and much more satisfactory view of this distressed damsel than had been his good fortune up to the present. Small details which, when he had first caught sight of her, distance had hidden from his view, now presented themselves. Her eyes, he discovered, which he had supposed brown, were only brown in their general colour-scheme. They were shot with attractive little flecks of gold, matching perfectly the little streaks of gold which the sun, coming out again on one of his flying visits and now shining benignantly once more on the world, revealed in her hair. Her chin was square and determined, but its resoluteness was contradicted by a dimple and by the pleasant good-humour of the mouth; and a further softening of the face was effected by the nose, which seemed to have started out with the intention of being dignified and aristocratic but had defeated its purpose by tilting very slightly at the tip. This was a girl who would take chances, but would take them with a smile and laugh when she lost. George was but an amateur physiognomist, but he could read what was obvious in the faces he encountered; and the more he looked at this girl, the less he was able to understand the scene which had just occurred. The thing mystified him completely. For all her good-humour, there was an air, a manner, a something capable and defensive, about this girl with which he could not imagine any man venturing to take liberties. The gold-brown eyes, as they met his now, were friendly and smiling, but he could imagine them freezing into a stare baleful enough and haughty enough to quell such a person as the silk-hatted young man with a single glance. Why, then, had that super-fatted individual been able to demoralize her to the extent of flying to the shelter of strange cabs? She was composed enough now, it was true, but it had been quite plain that at the moment when she entered the taxi her nerve had momentarily forsaken her. There were mysteries here, beyond George. The girl looked steadily at George and George looked steadily at her for the space of perhaps ten seconds. She seemed to George to be summing him up, weighing him. That the inspection proved satisfactory was shown by the fact that at the end of this period she smiled. Then she laughed, a clear pealing laugh which to George was far more musical than the most popular song-hit he had ever written. "I suppose you are wondering what it's all about?" she said. This was precisely what George was wondering most consumedly. "No, no," he said. "Not at all. It's not my business." "And of course you're much too well bred to be inquisitive about other people's business?" "Of course I am. What was it all about?" "I'm afraid I can't tell you." "But what am I to say to the cabman?" "I don't know. What do men usually say to cabmen?" "I mean he will feel very hurt if I don't give him a full explanation of all this. He stooped from his pedestal to make enquiries just now. Condescension like that deserves some recognition." "Give him a nice big tip." George was reminded of his reason for being in the cab. "I ought to have asked before," he said. "Where can I drive you?" "Oh, I mustn't steal your cab. Where were you going?" "I was going back to my hotel. I came out without any money, so I shall have to go there first to get some." The girl started. "What's the matter?" asked George. "I've lost my purse!" "Good Lord! Had it much in it?" "Not very much. But enough to buy a ticket home." "Any use asking where that is?" "None, I'm afraid." "I wasn't going to, of course." "Of course not. That's what I admire so much in you. You aren't inquisitive." George reflected. "There's only one thing to be done. You will have to wait in the cab at the hotel, while I go and get some money. Then, if you'll let me, I can lend you what you require." "It's much too kind of you. Could you manage eleven shillings?" "Easily. I've just had a legacy." "Of course, if you think I ought to be economical, I'll go third-class. That would only be five shillings. Ten-and-six is the first-class fare. So you see the place I want to get to is two hours from London." "Well, that's something to know." "But not much, is it?" "I think I had better lend you a sovereign. Then you'll be able to buy a lunch-basket." "You think of everything. And you're perfectly right. I shall be starving. But how do you know you will get the money back?" "I'll risk it." "Well, then, I shall have to be inquisitive and ask your name. Otherwise I shan't know where to send the money." "Oh, there's no mystery about me. I'm an open book." "You needn't be horrid about it. I can't help being mysterious." "I didn't mean that." "It sounded as if you did. Well, who is my benefactor?" "My name is George Bevan. I am staying at the Carlton at present." "I'll remember." The taxi moved slowly down the Haymarket. The girl laughed. "Yes?" said George. "I was only thinking of back there. You know, I haven't thanked you nearly enough for all you did. You were wonderful." "I'm very glad I was able to be of any help." "What did happen? You must remember I couldn't see a thing except your back, and I could only hear indistinctly." "Well, it started by a man galloping up and insisting that you had got into the cab. He was a fellow with the appearance of a before-using advertisement of an anti-fat medicine and the manners of a ring-tailed chimpanzee." The girl nodded. "Then it was Percy! I knew I wasn't mistaken." "Percy?" "That is his name." "It would be! I could have betted on it." "What happened then?" "I reasoned with the man, but didn't seem to soothe him, and finally he made a grab for the door-handle, so I knocked off his hat, and while he was retrieving it we moved on and escaped." The girl gave another silver peal of laughter. "Oh, what a shame I couldn't see it. But how resourceful of you! How did you happen to think of it?" "It just came to me," said George modestly. A serious look came into the girl's face. The smile died out of her eyes. She shivered. "When I think how some men might have behaved in your place!" "Oh, no. Any man would have done just what I did. Surely, knocking off Percy's hat was an act of simple courtesy which anyone would have performed automatically!" "You might have been some awful bounder. Or, what would have been almost worse, a slow-witted idiot who would have stopped to ask questions before doing anything. To think I should have had the luck to pick you out of all London!" "I've been looking on it as a piece of luck--but entirely from my viewpoint." She put a small hand on his arm, and spoke earnestly. "Mr. Bevan, you mustn't think that, because I've been laughing a good deal and have seemed to treat all this as a joke, you haven't saved me from real trouble. If you hadn't been there and hadn't acted with such presence of mind, it would have been terrible!" "But surely, if that fellow was annoying you, you could have called a policeman?" "Oh, it wasn't anything like that. It was much, much worse. But I mustn't go on like this. It isn't fair on you." Her eyes lit up again with the old shining smile. "I know you have no curiosity about me, but still there's no knowing whether I might not arouse some if I went on piling up the mystery. And the silly part is that really there's no mystery at all. It's just that I can't tell anyone about it." "That very fact seems to me to constitute the makings of a pretty fair mystery." "Well, what I mean is, I'm not a princess in disguise trying to escape from anarchists, or anything like those things you read about in books. I'm just in a perfectly simple piece of trouble. You would be bored to death if I told you about it." "Try me." She shook her head. "No. Besides, here we are." The cab had stopped at the hotel, and a commissionaire was already opening the door. "Now, if you haven't repented of your rash offer and really are going to be so awfully kind as to let me have that money, would you mind rushing off and getting it, because I must hurry. I can just catch a good train, and it's hours to the next." "Will you wait here? I'll be back in a moment." "Very well." The last George saw of her was another of those exhilarating smiles of hers. It was literally the last he saw of her, for, when he returned not more than two minutes later, the cab had gone, the girl had gone, and the world was empty. To him, gaping at this wholly unforeseen calamity the commissionaire vouchsafed information. "The young lady took the cab on, sir." "Took the cab on?" "Almost immediately after you had gone, sir, she got in again and told the man to drive to Waterloo." George could make nothing of it. He stood there in silent perplexity, and might have continued to stand indefinitely, had not his mind been distracted by a dictatorial voice at his elbow. "You, sir! Dammit!" A second taxi-cab had pulled up, and from it a stout, scarlet- faced young man had sprung. One glance told George all. The hunt was up once more. The bloodhound had picked up the trail. Percy was in again! For the first time since he had become aware of her flight, George was thankful that the girl had disappeared. He perceived that he had too quickly eliminated Percy from the list of the Things That Matter. Engrossed with his own affairs, and having regarded their late skirmish as a decisive battle from which there would be no rallying, he had overlooked the possibility of this annoying and unnecessary person following them in another cab--a task which, in the congested, slow-moving traffic, must have been a perfectly simple one. Well, here he was, his soul manifestly all stirred up and his blood-pressure at a far higher figure than his doctor would have approved of, and the matter would have to be opened all over again. "Now then!" said the stout young man. George regarded him with a critical and unfriendly eye. He disliked this fatty degeneration excessively. Looking him up and down, he could find no point about him that gave him the least pleasure, with the single exception of the state of his hat, in the side of which he was rejoiced to perceive there was a large and unshapely dent. "You thought you had shaken me off! You thought you'd given me the slip! Well, you're wrong!" George eyed him coldly. "I know what's the matter with you," he said. "Someone's been feeding you meat." The young man bubbled with fury. His face turned a deeper scarlet. He gesticulated. "You blackguard! Where's my sister?" At this extraordinary remark the world rocked about George dizzily. The words upset his entire diagnosis of the situation. Until that moment he had looked upon this man as a Lothario, a pursuer of damsels. That the other could possibly have any right on his side had never occurred to him. He felt unmanned by the shock. It seemed to cut the ground from under his feet. "Your sister!" "You heard what I said. Where is she?" George was still endeavouring to adjust his scattered faculties. He felt foolish and apologetic. He had imagined himself unassailably in the right, and it now appeared that he was in the wrong. For a moment he was about to become conciliatory. Then the recollection of the girl's panic and her hints at some trouble which threatened her--presumably through the medium of this man, brother or no brother--checked him. He did not know what it was all about, but the one thing that did stand out clearly in the welter of confused happenings was the girl's need for his assistance. Whatever might be the rights of the case, he was her accomplice, and must behave as such. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. The young man shook a large, gloved fist in his face. "You blackguard!" A rich, deep, soft, soothing voice slid into the heated scene like the Holy Grail sliding athwart a sunbeam. "What's all this?" A vast policeman had materialized from nowhere. He stood beside them, a living statue of Vigilant Authority. One thumb rested easily on his broad belt. The fingers of the other hand caressed lightly a moustache that had caused more heart-burnings among the gentler sex than any other two moustaches in the C-division. The eyes above the moustache were stern and questioning. "What's all this?" George liked policemen. He knew the way to treat them. His voice, when he replied, had precisely the correct note of respectful deference which the Force likes to hear. "I really couldn't say, officer," he said, with just that air of having in a time of trouble found a kind elder brother to help him out of his difficulties which made the constable his ally on the spot. "I was standing here, when this man suddenly made his extraordinary attack on me. I wish you would ask him to go away." The policeman tapped the stout young man on the shoulder. "This won't do, you know!" he said austerely. "This sort o' thing won't do, 'ere, you know!" "Take your hands off me!" snorted Percy. A frown appeared on the Olympian brow. Jove reached for his thunderbolts. "'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'Ullo!" he said in a shocked voice, as of a god defied by a mortal. "'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'Ul-lo!" His fingers fell on Percy's shoulder again, but this time not in a mere warning tap. They rested where they fell--in an iron clutch. "It won't do, you know," he said. "This sort o' thing won't do!" Madness came upon the stout young man. Common prudence and the lessons of a carefully-taught youth fell from him like a garment. With an incoherent howl he wriggled round and punched the policeman smartly in the stomach. "Ho!" quoth the outraged officer, suddenly becoming human. His left hand removed itself from the belt, and he got a businesslike grip on his adversary's collar. "Will you come along with me!" It was amazing. The thing had happened in such an incredibly brief space of time. One moment, it seemed to George, he was the centre of a nasty row in one of the most public spots in London; the next, the focus had shifted; he had ceased to matter; and the entire attention of the metropolis was focused on his late assailant, as, urged by the arm of the Law, he made that journey to Vine Street Police Station which so many a better man than he had trod. George watched the pair as they moved up the Haymarket, followed by a growing and increasingly absorbed crowd; then he turned into the hotel. "This," he said to himself; "is the middle of a perfect day! And I thought London dull!" CHAPTER 5. George awoke next morning with a misty sense that somehow the world had changed. As the last remnants of sleep left him, he was aware of a vague excitement. Then he sat up in bed with a jerk. He had remembered that he was in love. There was no doubt about it. A curious happiness pervaded his entire being. He felt young and active. Everything was emphatically for the best in this best of all possible worlds. The sun was shining. Even the sound of someone in the street below whistling one of his old compositions, of which he had heartily sickened twelve months before, was pleasant to his ears, and this in spite of the fact that the unseen whistler only touched the key in odd spots and had a poor memory for tunes. George sprang lightly out of bed, and turned on the cold tap in the bath-room. While he lathered his face for its morning shave he beamed at himself in the mirror. It had come at last. The Real Thing. George had never been in love before. Not really in love. True, from the age of fifteen, he had been in varying degrees of intensity attracted sentimentally by the opposite sex. Indeed, at that period of life of which Mr. Booth Tarkington has written so searchingly--the age of seventeen--he had been in love with practically every female he met and with dozens whom he had only seen in the distance; but ripening years had mellowed his taste and robbed him of that fine romantic catholicity. During the last five years women had found him more or less cold. It was the nature of his profession that had largely brought about this cooling of the emotions. To a man who, like George, has worked year in and year out at the composition of musical comedies, woman comes to lose many of those attractive qualities which ensnare the ordinary male. To George, of late years, it had begun to seem that the salient feature of woman as a sex was her disposition to kick. For five years he had been wandering in a world of women, many of them beautiful, all of them superficially attractive, who had left no other impress on his memory except the vigour and frequency with which they had kicked. Some had kicked about their musical numbers, some about their love-scenes; some had grumbled about their exit lines, others about the lines of their second-act frocks. They had kicked in a myriad differing ways--wrathfully, sweetly, noisily, softly, smilingly, tearfully, pathetically and patronizingly; but they had all kicked; with the result that woman had now become to George not so much a flaming inspiration or a tender goddess as something to be dodged--tactfully, if possible; but, if not possible, by open flight. For years he had dreaded to be left alone with a woman, and had developed a habit of gliding swiftly away when he saw one bearing down on him. The psychological effect of such a state of things is not difficult to realize. Take a man of naturally quixotic temperament, a man of chivalrous instincts and a feeling for romance, and cut him off for five years from the exercise of those qualities, and you get an accumulated store of foolishness only comparable to an escape of gas in a sealed room or a cellarful of dynamite. A flicker of a match, and there is an explosion. This girl's tempestuous irruption into his life had supplied flame for George. Her bright eyes, looking into his, had touched off the spiritual trinitrotoluol which he had been storing up for so long. Up in the air in a million pieces had gone the prudence and self-restraint of a lifetime. And here he was, as desperately in love as any troubadour of the Middle Ages. It was not till he had finished shaving and was testing the temperature of his bath with a shrinking toe that the realization came over him in a wave that, though he might be in love, the fairway of love was dotted with more bunkers than any golf course he had ever played on in his life. In the first place, he did not know the girl's name. In the second place, it seemed practically impossible that he would ever see her again. Even in the midst of his optimism George could not deny that these facts might reasonably be considered in the nature of obstacles. He went back into his bedroom, and sat on the bed. This thing wanted thinking over. He was not depressed--only a little thoughtful. His faith in his luck sustained him. He was, he realized, in the position of a man who has made a supreme drive from the tee, and finds his ball near the green but in a cuppy lie. He had gained much; it now remained for him to push his success to the happy conclusion. The driver of Luck must be replaced by the spoon--or, possibly, the niblick--of Ingenuity. To fail now, to allow this girl to pass out of his life merely because he did not know who she was or where she was, would stamp him a feeble adventurer. A fellow could not expect Luck to do everything for him. He must supplement its assistance with his own efforts. What had he to go on? Well, nothing much, if it came to that, except the knowledge that she lived some two hours by train out of London, and that her journey started from Waterloo Station. What would Sherlock Holmes have done? Concentrated thought supplied no answer to the question; and it was at this point that the cheery optimism with which he had begun the day left George and gave place to a grey gloom. A dreadful phrase, haunting in its pathos, crept into his mind. "Ships that pass in the night!" It might easily turn out that way. Indeed, thinking over the affair in all its aspects as he dried himself after his tub, George could not see how it could possibly turn out any other way. He dressed moodily, and left the room to go down to breakfast. Breakfast would at least alleviate this sinking feeling which was unmanning him. And he could think more briskly after a cup or two of coffee. He opened the door. On a mat outside lay a letter. The handwriting was feminine. It was also in pencil, and strange to him. He opened the envelope. "Dear Mr. Bevan" (it began). With a sudden leap of the heart he looked at the signature. The letter was signed "The Girl in the Cab." "DEAR MR. BEVAN, "I hope you won't think me very rude, running off without waiting to say good-bye. I had to. I saw Percy driving up in a cab, and knew that he must have followed us. He did not see me, so I got away all right. I managed splendidly about the money, for I remembered that I was wearing a nice brooch, and stopped on the way to the station to pawn it. "Thank you ever so much again for all your wonderful kindness. Yours, THE GIRL IN THE CAB." George read the note twice on the way down to the breakfast room, and three times more during the meal; then, having committed its contents to memory down to the last comma, he gave himself up to glowing thoughts. What a girl! He had never in his life before met a woman who could write a letter without a postscript, and this was but the smallest of her unusual gifts. The resource of her, to think of pawning that brooch! The sweetness of her to bother to send him a note! More than ever before was he convinced that he had met his ideal, and more than ever before was he determined that a triviality like being unaware of her name and address should not keep him from her. It was not as if he had no clue to go upon. He knew that she lived two hours from London and started home from Waterloo. It narrowed the thing down absurdly. There were only about three counties in which she could possibly live; and a man must be a poor fellow who is incapable of searching through a few small counties for the girl he loves. Especially a man with luck like his. Luck is a goddess not to be coerced and forcibly wooed by those who seek her favours. From such masterful spirits she turns away. But it happens sometimes that, if we put our hand in hers with the humble trust of a little child, she will have pity on us, and not fail us in our hour of need. On George, hopefully watching for something to turn up, she smiled almost immediately. It was George's practice, when he lunched alone, to relieve the tedium of the meal with the assistance of reading matter in the shape of one or more of the evening papers. Today, sitting down to a solitary repast at the Piccadilly grill-room, he had brought with him an early edition of the Evening News. And one of the first items which met his eye was the following, embodied in a column on one of the inner pages devoted to humorous comments in prose and verse on the happenings of the day. This particular happening the writer had apparently considered worthy of being dignified by rhyme. It was headed: "THE PEER AND THE POLICEMAN." "Outside the 'Carlton,' 'tis averred, these stirring happenings occurred. The hour, 'tis said (and no one doubts) was half-past two, or thereabouts. The day was fair, the sky was blue, and everything was peaceful too, when suddenly a well-dressed gent engaged in heated argument and roundly to abuse began another well-dressed gentleman. His suede-gloved fist he raised on high to dot the other in the eye. Who knows what horrors might have been, had there not come upon the scene old London city's favourite son, Policeman C. 231. 'What means this conduct? Prithee stop!' exclaimed that admirable slop. With which he placed a warning hand upon the brawler's collarband. We simply hate to tell the rest. No subject here for flippant jest. The mere remembrance of the tale has made our ink turn deadly pale. Let us be brief. Some demon sent stark madness on the well-dressed gent. He gave the constable a punch just where the latter kept his lunch. The constable said 'Well! Well! Well!' and marched him to a dungeon cell. At Vine Street Station out it came--Lord Belpher was the culprit's name. But British Justice is severe alike on pauper and on peer; with even hand she holds the scale; a thumping fine, in lieu of gaol, induced Lord B. to feel remorse and learn he mustn't punch the Force." George's mutton chop congealed on the plate, untouched. The French fried potatoes cooled off, unnoticed. This was no time for food. Rightly indeed had he relied upon his luck. It had stood by him nobly. With this clue, all was over except getting to the nearest Free Library and consulting Burke's Peerage. He paid his bill and left the restaurant. Ten minutes later he was drinking in the pregnant information that Belpher was the family name of the Earl of Marshmoreton, and that the present earl had one son, Percy Wilbraham Marsh, educ. Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, and what the book with its customary curtness called "one d."--Patricia Maud. The family seat, said Burke, was Belpher Castle, Belpher, Hants. Some hours later, seated in a first-class compartment of a train that moved slowly out of Waterloo Station, George watched London vanish behind him. In the pocket closest to his throbbing heart was a single ticket to Belpher. CHAPTER 6. At about the time that George Bevan's train was leaving Waterloo, a grey racing car drew up with a grinding of brakes and a sputter of gravel in front of the main entrance of Belpher Castle. The slim and elegant young man at the wheel removed his goggles, pulled out a watch, and addressed the stout young man at his side. "Two hours and eighteen minutes from Hyde Park Corner, Boots. Not so dusty, what?" His companion made no reply. He appeared to be plunged in thought. He, too, removed his goggles, revealing a florid and gloomy face, equipped, in addition to the usual features, with a small moustache and an extra chin. He scowled forbiddingly at the charming scene which the goggles had hidden from him. Before him, a symmetrical mass of grey stone and green ivy, Belpher Castle towered against a light blue sky. On either side rolling park land spread as far as the eye could see, carpeted here and there with violets, dotted with great oaks and ashes and Spanish chestnuts, orderly, peaceful and English. Nearer, on his left, were rose-gardens, in the centre of which, tilted at a sharp angle, appeared the seat of a pair of corduroy trousers, whose wearer seemed to be engaged in hunting for snails. Thrushes sang in the green shrubberies; rooks cawed in the elms. Somewhere in the distance sounded the tinkle of sheep bells and the lowing of cows. It was, in fact, a scene which, lit by the evening sun of a perfect spring day and fanned by a gentle westerly wind, should have brought balm and soothing meditations to one who was the sole heir to all this Paradise. But Percy, Lord Belpher, remained uncomforted by the notable co-operation of Man and Nature, and drew no solace from the reflection that all these pleasant things would one day be his own. His mind was occupied at the moment, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the recollection of that painful scene in Bow Street Police Court. The magistrate's remarks, which had been tactless and unsympathetic, still echoed in his ears. And that infernal night in Vine Street police station . . . The darkness . . . The hard bed. . . The discordant vocalising of the drunk and disorderly in the next cell. . . . Time might soften these memories, might lessen the sharp agony of them; but nothing could remove them altogether. Percy had been shaken to the core of his being. Physically, he was still stiff and sore from the plank bed. Mentally, he was a volcano. He had been marched up the Haymarket in the full sight of all London by a bounder of a policeman. He had been talked to like an erring child by a magistrate whom nothing could convince that he had not been under the influence of alcohol at the moment of his arrest. (The man had said things about his liver, kindly be-warned-in-time-and-pull-up-before-it-is-too-late things, which would have seemed to Percy indecently frank if spoken by his medical adviser in the privacy of the sick chamber.) It is perhaps not to be wondered at that Belpher Castle, for all its beauty of scenery and architecture, should have left Lord Belpher a little cold. He was seething with a fury which the conversation of Reggie Byng had done nothing to allay in the course of the journey from London. Reggie was the last person he would willingly have chosen as a companion in his hour of darkness. Reggie was not soothing. He would insist on addressing him by his old Eton nickname of Boots which Percy detested. And all the way down he had been breaking out at intervals into ribald comments on the recent unfortunate occurrence which were very hard to bear. He resumed this vein as they alighted and rang the bell. "This," said Reggie, "is rather like a bit out of a melodrama. Convict son totters up the steps of the old home and punches the bell. What awaits him beyond? Forgiveness? Or the raspberry? True, the white-haired butler who knew him as a child will sob on his neck, but what of the old dad? How will dad take the blot of the family escutcheon?" Lord Belpher's scowl deepened. "It's not a joking matter," he said coldly. "Great Heavens, I'm not joking. How could I have the heart to joke at a moment like this, when the friend of my youth has suddenly become a social leper?" "I wish to goodness you would stop." "Do you think it is any pleasure to me to be seen about with a man who is now known in criminal circles as Percy, the Piccadilly Policeman-Puncher? I keep a brave face before the world, but inwardly I burn with shame and agony and what not." The great door of the castle swung open, revealing Keggs, the butler. He was a man of reverend years, portly and dignified, with a respectfully benevolent face that beamed gravely on the young master and Mr. Byng, as if their coming had filled his cup of pleasure. His light, slightly protruding eyes expressed reverential good will. He gave just that touch of cosy humanity to the scene which the hall with its half lights and massive furniture needed to make it perfect to the returned wanderer. He seemed to be intimating that this was a moment to which he had looked forward long, and that from now on quiet happiness would reign supreme. It is distressing to have to reveal the jarring fact that, in his hours of privacy when off duty, this apparently ideal servitor was so far from being a respecter of persons that he was accustomed to speak of Lord Belpher as "Percy", and even as "His Nibs". It was, indeed, an open secret among the upper servants at the castle, and a fact hinted at with awe among the lower, that Keggs was at heart a Socialist. "Good evening, your lordship. Good evening, sir." Lord Belpher acknowledged the salutation with a grunt, but Reggie was more affable. "How are you, Keggs? Now's your time, if you're going to do it." He stepped a little to one side and indicated Lord Belpher's crimson neck with an inviting gesture. "I beg your pardon, sir?" "Ah. You'd rather wait till you can do it a little more privately. Perhaps you're right." The butler smiled indulgently. He did not understand what Reggie was talking about, but that did not worry him. He had long since come to the conclusion that Reggie was slightly mad, a theory supported by the latter's valet, who was of the same opinion. Keggs did not dislike Reggie, but intellectually he considered him negligible. "Send something to drink into the library, Keggs," said Lord Belpher. "Very good, your lordship." "A topping idea," said Reggie. "I'll just take the old car round to the garage, and then I'll be with you." He climbed to the steering wheel, and started the engine. Lord Belpher proceeded to the library, while Keggs melted away through the green baize door at the end of the hall which divided the servants' quarters from the rest of the house. Reggie had hardly driven a dozen yards when he perceived his stepmother and Lord Marshmoreton coming towards him from the direction of the rose-garden. He drew up to greet them. "Hullo, mater. What ho, uncle! Back again at the old homestead, what?" Beneath Lady Caroline's aristocratic front agitation seemed to lurk. "Reggie, where is Percy?" "Old Boots? I think he's gone to the library. I just decanted him out of the car." Lady Caroline turned to her brother. "Let us go to the library, John." "All right. All right. All right," said Lord Marshmoreton irritably. Something appeared to have ruffled his calm. Reggie drove on. As he was strolling back after putting the car away he met Maud. "Hullo, Maud, dear old thing." "Why, hullo, Reggie. I was expecting you back last night." "Couldn't get back last night. Had to stick in town and rally round old Boots. Couldn't desert the old boy in his hour of trial." Reggie chuckled amusedly. "'Hour of trial,' is rather good, what? What I mean to say is, that's just what it was, don't you know." "Why, what happened to Percy?" "Do you mean to say you haven't heard? Of course not. It wouldn't have been in the morning papers. Why, Percy punched a policeman." "Percy did what?" "Slugged a slop. Most dramatic thing. Sloshed him in the midriff. Absolutely. The cross marks the spot where the tragedy occurred." Maud caught her breath. Somehow, though she could not trace the connection, she felt that this extraordinary happening must be linked up with her escapade. Then her sense of humour got the better of apprehension. Her eyes twinkled delightedly. "You don't mean to say Percy did that?" "Absolutely. The human tiger, and what not. Menace to Society and all that sort of thing. No holding him. For some unexplained reason the generous blood of the Belphers boiled over, and then--zing. They jerked him off to Vine Street. Like the poem, don't you know. 'And poor old Percy walked between with gyves upon his wrists.' And this morning, bright and early, the beak parted him from ten quid. You know, Maud, old thing, our duty stares us plainly in the eyeball. We've got to train old Boots down to a reasonable weight and spring him on the National Sporting Club. We've been letting a champion middleweight blush unseen under our very roof tree." Maud hesitated a moment. "I suppose you don't know," she asked carelessly, "why he did it? I mean, did he tell you anything?" "Couldn't get a word out of him. Oysters garrulous and tombs chatty in comparison. Absolutely. All I know is that he popped one into the officer's waistband. What led up to it is more than I can tell you. How would it be to stagger to the library and join the post-mortem?" "The post-mortem?" "Well, I met the mater and his lordship on their way to the library, and it looked to me very much as if the mater must have got hold of an evening paper on her journey from town. When did she arrive?" "Only a short while ago." "Then that's what's happened. She would have bought an evening paper to read in the train. By Jove, I wonder if she got hold of the one that had the poem about it. One chappie was so carried away by the beauty of the episode that he treated it in verse. I think we ought to look in and see what's happening." Maud hesitated again. But she was a girl of spirit. And she had an intuition that her best defence would be attack. Bluff was what was needed. Wide-eyed, innocent wonder . . . After all, Percy couldn't be certain he had seen her in Piccadilly. "All right." "By the way, dear old girl," inquired Reggie, "did your little business come out satisfactorily? I forgot to ask." "Not very. But it was awfully sweet of you to take me into town." "How would it be," said Reggie nervously, "not to dwell too much on that part of it? What I mean to say is, for heaven's sake don't let the mater know I rallied round." "Don't worry," said Maud with a laugh. "I'm not going to talk about the thing at all." Lord Belpher, meanwhile, in the library, had begun with the aid of a whisky and soda to feel a little better. There was something about the library with its sombre half tones that soothed his bruised spirit. The room held something of the peace of a deserted city. The world, with its violent adventures and tall policemen, did not enter here. There was balm in those rows and rows of books which nobody ever read, those vast writing tables at which nobody ever wrote. From the broad mantel-piece the bust of some unnamed ancient looked down almost sympathetically. Something remotely resembling peace had begun to steal into Percy's soul, when it was expelled by the abrupt opening of the door and the entry of Lady Caroline Byng and his father. One glance at the face of the former was enough to tell Lord Belpher that she knew all. He rose defensively. "Let me explain." Lady Caroline quivered with repressed emotion. This masterly woman had not lost control of herself, but her aristocratic calm had seldom been so severely tested. As Reggie had surmised, she had read the report of the proceedings in the evening paper in the train, and her world had been reeling ever since. Caesar, stabbed by Brutus, could scarcely have experienced a greater shock. The other members of her family had disappointed her often. She had become inured to the spectacle of her brother working in the garden in corduroy trousers and in other ways behaving in a manner beneath the dignity of an Earl of Marshmoreton. She had resigned herself to the innate flaw in the character of Maud which had allowed her to fall in love with a nobody whom she had met without an introduction. Even Reggie had exhibited at times democratic traits of which she thoroughly disapproved. But of her nephew Percy she had always been sure. He was solid rock. He, at least, she had always felt, would never do anything to injure the family prestige. And now, so to speak, "Lo, Ben Adhem's name led all the rest." In other words, Percy was the worst of the lot. Whatever indiscretions the rest had committed, at least they had never got the family into the comic columns of the evening papers. Lord Marshmoreton might wear corduroy trousers and refuse to entertain the County at garden parties and go to bed with a book when it was his duty to act as host at a formal ball; Maud might give her heart to an impossible person whom nobody had ever heard of; and Reggie might be seen at fashionable restaurants with pugilists; but at any rate evening paper poets had never written facetious verses about their exploits. This crowning degradation had been reserved for the hitherto blameless Percy, who, of all the young men of Lady Caroline's acquaintance, had till now appeared to have the most scrupulous sense of his position, the most rigid regard for the dignity of his great name. Yet, here he was, if the carefully considered reports in the daily press were to be believed, spending his time in the very spring-tide of his life running about London like a frenzied Hottentot, brutally assaulting the police. Lady Caroline felt as a bishop might feel if he suddenly discovered that some favourite curate had gone over to the worship of Mumbo Jumbo. "Explain?" she cried. "How can you explain? You--my nephew, the heir to the title, behaving like a common rowdy in the streets of London . . . your name in the papers . . . " "If you knew the circumstances." "The circumstances? They are in the evening paper. They are in print." "In verse," added Lord Marshmoreton. He chuckled amiably at the recollection. He was an easily amused man. "You ought to read it, my boy. Some of it was capital . . ." "John!" "But deplorable, of course," added Lord Marshmoreton hastily. "Very deplorable." He endeavoured to regain his sister's esteem by a show of righteous indignation. "What do you mean by it, damn it? You're my only son. I have watched you grow from child to boy, from boy to man, with tender solicitude. I have wanted to be proud of you. And all the time, dash it, you are prowling about London like a lion, seeking whom you may devour, terrorising the metropolis, putting harmless policemen in fear of their lives. . ." "Will you listen to me for a moment?" shouted Percy. He began to speak rapidly, as one conscious of the necessity of saying his say while the saying was good. "The facts are these. I was walking along Piccadilly on my way to lunch at the club, when, near Burlington Arcade, I was amazed to see Maud." Lady Caroline uttered an exclamation. "Maud? But Maud was here." "I can't understand it," went on Lord Marshmoreton, pursuing his remarks. Righteous indignation had, he felt, gone well. It might be judicious to continue in that vein, though privately he held the opinion that nothing in Percy's life so became him as this assault on the Force. Lord Marshmoreton, who in his time had committed all the follies of youth, had come to look on his blameless son as scarcely human. "It's not as if you were wild. You've never got into any scrapes at Oxford. You've spent your time collecting old china and prayer rugs. You wear flannel next your skin . . ." "Will you please be quiet," said Lady Caroline impatiently. "Go on, Percy." "Oh, very well," said Lord Marshmoreton. "I only spoke. I merely made a remark." "You say you saw Maud in Piccadilly, Percy?" "Precisely. I was on the point of putting it down to an extraordinary resemblance, when suddenly she got into a cab. Then I knew." Lord Marshmoreton could not permit this to pass in silence. He was a fair-minded man. "Why shouldn't the girl have got into a cab? Why must a girl walking along Piccadilly be my daughter Maud just because she got into a cab. London," he proceeded, warming to the argument and thrilled by the clearness and coherence of his reasoning, "is full of girls who take cabs." "She didn't take a cab." "You just said she did," said Lord Marshmoreton cleverly. "I said she got into a cab. There was somebody else already in the cab. A man. Aunt Caroline, it was the man." "Good gracious," ejaculated Lady Caroline, falling into a chair as if she had been hamstrung. "I am absolutely convinced of it," proceeded Lord Belpher solemnly. "His behaviour was enough to confirm my suspicions. The cab had stopped in a block of the traffic, and I went up and requested him in a perfectly civil manner to allow me to look at the lady who had just got in. He denied that there was a lady in the cab. And I had seen her jump in with my own eyes. Throughout the conversation he was leaning out of the window with the obvious intention of screening whoever was inside from my view. I followed him along Piccadilly in another cab, and tracked him to the Carlton. When I arrived there he was standing on the pavement outside. There were no signs of Maud. I demanded that he tell me her whereabouts. . ." "That reminds me," said Lord Marshmoreton cheerfully, "of a story I read in one of the papers. I daresay it's old. Stop me if you've heard it. A woman says to the maid: 'Do you know anything of my husband's whereabouts?' And the maid replies--" "Do be quiet," snapped Lady Caroline. "I should have thought that you would be interested in a matter affecting the vital welfare of your only daughter." "I am. I am," said Lord Marshmoreton hastily. "The maid replied: 'They're at the wash.' Of course I am. Go on, Percy. Good God, boy, don't take all day telling us your story." "At that moment the fool of a policeman came up and wanted to know what the matter was. I lost my head. I admit it freely. The policeman grasped my shoulder, and I struck him." "Where?" asked Lord Marshmoreton, a stickler for detail. "What does that matter?" demanded Lady Caroline. "You did quite right, Percy. These insolent jacks in office ought not to be allowed to manhandle people. Tell me, what this man was like?" "Extremely ordinary-looking. In fact, all I can remember about him was that he was clean-shaven. I cannot understand how Maud could have come to lose her head over such a man. He seemed to me to have no attraction whatever," said Lord Belpher, a little unreasonably, for Apollo himself would hardly appear attractive when knocking one's best hat off. "It must have been the same man." "Precisely. If we wanted further proof, he was an American. You recollect that we heard that the man in Wales was American." There was a portentous silence. Percy stared at the floor. Lady Caroline breathed deeply. Lord Marshmoreton, feeling that something was expected of him, said "Good Gad!" and gazed seriously at a stuffed owl on a bracket. Maud and Reggie Byng came in. "What ho, what ho, what ho!" said Reggie breezily. He always believed in starting a conversation well, and putting people at their ease. "What ho! What ho!" Maud braced herself for the encounter. "Hullo, Percy, dear," she said, meeting her brother's accusing eye with the perfect composure that comes only from a thoroughly guilty conscience. "What's all this I hear about your being the Scourge of London? Reggie says that policemen dive down manholes when they see you coming." The chill in the air would have daunted a less courageous girl. Lady Caroline had risen, and was staring sternly. Percy was puffing the puffs of an overwrought soul. Lord Marshmoreton, whose thoughts had wandered off to the rose garden, pulled himself together and tried to look menacing. Maud went on without waiting for a reply. She was all bubbling gaiety and insouciance, a charming picture of young English girlhood that nearly made her brother foam at the mouth. "Father dear," she said, attaching herself affectionately to his buttonhole, "I went round the links in eighty-three this morning. I did the long hole in four. One under par, a thing I've never done before in my life." ("Bless my soul," said Lord Marshmoreton weakly, as, with an apprehensive eye on his sister, he patted his daughter's shoulder.) "First, I sent a screecher of a drive right down the middle of the fairway. Then I took my brassey and put the ball just on the edge of the green. A hundred and eighty yards if it was an inch. My approach putt--" Lady Caroline, who was no devotee of the royal and ancient game, interrupted the recital. "Never mind what you did this morning. What did you do yesterday afternoon?" "Yes," said Lord Belpher. "Where were you yesterday afternoon?" Maud's gaze was the gaze of a young child who has never even attempted to put anything over in all its little life. "Whatever do you mean?" "What were you doing in Piccadilly yesterday afternoon?" said Lady Caroline. "Piccadilly? The place where Percy fights policemen? I don't understand." Lady Caroline was no sportsman. She put one of those direct questions, capable of being answered only by "Yes" or "No", which ought not to be allowed in controversy. They are the verbal equivalent of shooting a sitting bird. "Did you or did you not go to London yesterday, Maud?" The monstrous unfairness of this method of attack pained Maud. From childhood up she had held the customary feminine views upon the Lie Direct. As long as it was a question of suppression of the true or suggestion of the false she had no scruples. But she had a distaste for deliberate falsehood. Faced now with a choice between two evils, she chose the one which would at least leave her self-respect. "Yes, I did." Lady Caroline looked at Lord Belpher. Lord Belpher looked at Lady Caroline. "You went to meet that American of yours?" Reggie Byng slid softly from the room. He felt that he would be happier elsewhere. He had been an acutely embarrassed spectator of this distressing scene, and had been passing the time by shuffling his feet, playing with his coat buttons and perspiring. "Don't go, Reggie," said Lord Belpher. "Well, what I mean to say is--family row and what not--if you see what I mean--I've one or two things I ought to do--" He vanished. Lord Belpher frowned a sombre frown. "Then it was that man who knocked my hat off?" "What do you mean?" said Lady Caroline. "Knocked your hat off? You never told me he knocked your hat off." "It was when I was asking him to let me look inside the cab. I had grasped the handle of the door, when he suddenly struck my hat, causing it to fly off. And, while I was picking it up, he drove away." "C'k," exploded Lord Marshmoreton. "C'k, c'k, c'k." He twisted his face by a supreme exertion of will power into a mask of indignation. "You ought to have had the scoundrel arrested," he said vehemently. "It was a technical assault." "The man who knocked your hat off, Percy," said Maud, "was not . . . He was a different man altogether. A stranger." "As if you would be in a cab with a stranger," said Lady Caroline caustically. "There are limits, I hope, to even your indiscretions." Lord Marshmoreton cleared his throat. He was sorry for Maud, whom he loved. "Now, looking at the matter broadly--" "Be quiet," said Lady Caroline. Lord Marshmoreton subsided. "I wanted to avoid you," said Maud, "so I jumped into the first cab I saw." "I don't believe it," said Percy. "It's the truth." "You are simply trying to put us off the scent." Lady Caroline turned to Maud. Her manner was plaintive. She looked like a martyr at the stake who deprecatingly lodges a timid complaint, fearful the while lest she may be hurting the feelings of her persecutors by appearing even for a moment out of sympathy with their activities. "My dear child, why will you not be reasonable in this matter? Why will you not let yourself be guided by those who are older and wiser than you?" "Exactly," said Lord Belpher. "The whole thing is too absurd." "Precisely," said Lord Belpher. Lady Caroline turned on him irritably. "Please do not interrupt, Percy. Now, you've made me forget what I was going to say." "To my mind," said Lord Marshmoreton, coming to the surface once more, "the proper attitude to adopt on occasions like the present--" "Please," said Lady Caroline. Lord Marshmoreton stopped, and resumed his silent communion with the stuffed bird. "You can't stop yourself being in love, Aunt Caroline," said Maud. "You can be stopped if you've somebody with a level head looking after you." Lord Marshmoreton tore himself away from the bird. "Why, when I was at Oxford in the year '87," he said chattily, "I fancied myself in love with the female assistant at a tobacconist shop. Desperately in love, dammit. Wanted to marry her. I recollect my poor father took me away from Oxford and kept me here at Belpher under lock and key. Lock and key, dammit. I was deucedly upset at the time, I remember." His mind wandered off into the glorious past. "I wonder what that girl's name was. Odd one can't remember names. She had chestnut hair and a mole on the side of her chin. I used to kiss it, I recollect--" Lady Caroline, usually such an advocate of her brother's researches into the family history, cut the reminiscences short. "Never mind that now." "I don't. I got over it. That's the moral." "Well," said Lady Caroline, "at any rate poor father acted with great good sense on that occasion. There seems nothing to do but to treat Maud in just the same way. You shall not stir a step from the castle till you have got over this dreadful infatuation. You will be watched." "I shall watch you," said Lord Belpher solemnly, "I shall watch your every movement." A dreamy look came into Maud's brown eyes. "Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage," she said softly. "That wasn't your experience, Percy, my boy," said Lord Marshmoreton. "They make a very good imitation," said Lady Caroline coldly, ignoring the interruption. Maud faced her defiantly. She looked like a princess in captivity facing her gaolers. "I don't care. I love him, and I always shall love him, and nothing is ever going to stop me loving him--because I love him," she concluded a little lamely. "Nonsense," said Lady Caroline. "In a year from now you will have forgotten his name. Don't you agree with me, Percy?" "Quite," said Lord Belpher. "I shan't." "Deuced hard things to remember, names," said Lord Marshmoreton. "If I've tried once to remember that tobacconist girl's name, I've tried a hundred times. I have an idea it began with an 'L.' Muriel or Hilda or something." "Within a year," said Lady Caroline, "you will be wondering how you ever came to be so foolish. Don't you think so, Percy?" "Quite," said Lord Belpher. Lord Marshmoreton turned on him irritably. "Good God, boy, can't you answer a simple question with a plain affirmative? What do you mean--quite? If somebody came to me and pointed you out and said, 'Is that your son?' do you suppose I should say 'Quite?' I wish the devil you didn't collect prayer rugs. It's sapped your brain." "They say prison life often weakens the intellect, father," said Maud. She moved towards the door and turned the handle. Albert, the page boy, who had been courting earache by listening at the keyhole, straightened his small body and scuttled away. "Well, is that all, Aunt Caroline? May I go now?" "Certainly. I have said all I wished to say." "Very well. I'm sorry to disobey you, but I can't help it." "You'll find you can help it after you've been cooped up here for a few more months," said Percy. A gentle smile played over Maud's face. "Love laughs at locksmiths," she murmured softly, and passed from the room. "What did she say?" asked Lord Marshmoreton, interested. "Something about somebody laughing at a locksmith? I don't understand. Why should anyone laugh at locksmiths? Most respectable men. Had one up here only the day before yesterday, forcing open the drawer of my desk. Watched him do it. Most interesting. He smelt rather strongly of a damned bad brand of tobacco. Fellow must have a throat of leather to be able to smoke the stuff. But he didn't strike me as an object of derision. From first to last, I was never tempted to laugh once." Lord Belpher wandered moodily to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness. "And this has to happen," he said bitterly, "on the eve of my twenty-first birthday." CHAPTER 7. The first requisite of an invading army is a base. George, having entered Belpher village and thus accomplished the first stage in his foreward movement on the castle, selected as his base the Marshmoreton Arms. Selected is perhaps hardly the right word, as it implies choice, and in George's case there was no choice. There are two inns at Belpher, but the Marshmoreton Arms is the only one that offers accommodation for man and beast, assuming--that is to say--that the man and beast desire to spend the night. The other house, the Blue Boar, is a mere beerhouse, where the lower strata of Belpher society gather of a night to quench their thirst and to tell one another interminable stories without any point whatsoever. But the Marshmoreton Arms is a comfortable, respectable hostelry, catering for the village plutocrats. There of an evening you will find the local veterinary surgeon smoking a pipe with the grocer, the baker, and the butcher, with perhaps a sprinkling of neighbouring farmers to help the conversation along. On Saturdays there is a "shilling ordinary"--which is rural English for a cut off the joint and a boiled potato, followed by hunks of the sort of cheese which believes that it pays to advertise, and this is usually well attended. On the other days of the week, until late in the evening, however, the visitor to the Marshmoreton Arms has the place almost entirely to himself. It is to be questioned whether in the whole length and breadth of the world there is a more admirable spot for a man in love to pass a day or two than the typical English village. The Rocky Mountains, that traditional stamping-ground for the heartbroken, may be well enough in their way; but a lover has to be cast in a pretty stern mould to be able to be introspective when at any moment he may meet an annoyed cinnamon bear. In the English village there are no such obstacles to meditation. It combines the comforts of civilization with the restfulness of solitude in a manner equalled by no other spot except the New York Public Library. Here your lover may wander to and fro unmolested, speaking to nobody, by nobody addressed, and have the satisfaction at the end of the day of sitting down to a capitally cooked chop and chips, lubricated by golden English ale. Belpher, in addition to all the advantages of the usual village, has a quiet charm all its own, due to the fact that it has seen better days. In a sense, it is a ruin, and ruins are always soothing to the bruised soul. Ten years before, Belpher had been a flourishing centre of the South of England oyster trade. It is situated by the shore, where Hayling Island, lying athwart the mouth of the bay, forms the waters into a sort of brackish lagoon, in much the same way as Fire Island shuts off the Great South Bay of Long Island from the waves of the Atlantic. The water of Belpher Creek is shallow even at high tide, and when the tide runs out it leaves glistening mud flats, which it is the peculiar taste of the oyster to prefer to any other habitation. For years Belpher oysters had been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, the Carlton and Romano's. Dukes doted on them; chorus girls wept if they were not on the bill of fare. And then, in an evil hour, somebody discovered that what made the Belpher Oyster so particularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted, lunched and dined almost entirely on the local sewage. There is but a thin line ever between popular homage and execration. We see it in the case of politicians, generals and prize-fighters; and oysters are no exception to the rule. There was a typhoid scare--quite a passing and unjustified scare, but strong enough to do its deadly work; and almost overnight Belpher passed from a place of flourishing industry to the sleepy, by-the-world-forgotten spot which it was when George Bevan discovered it. The shallow water is still there; the mud is still there; even the oyster-beds are still there; but not the oysters nor the little world of activity which had sprung up around them. The glory of Belpher is dead; and over its gates Ichabod is written. But, if it has lost in importance, it has gained in charm; and George, for one, had no regrets. To him, in his present state of mental upheaval, Belpher was the ideal spot. It was not at first that George roused himself to the point of asking why he was here and what--now that he was here--he proposed to do. For two languorous days he loafed, sufficiently occupied with his thoughts. He smoked long, peaceful pipes in the stable-yard, watching the ostlers as they groomed the horses; he played with the Inn puppy, bestowed respectful caresses on the Inn cat. He walked down the quaint cobbled street to the harbour, sauntered along the shore, and lay on his back on the little beach at the other side of the lagoon, from where he could see the red roofs of the village, while the imitation waves splashed busily on the stones, trying to conceal with bustle and energy the fact that the water even two hundred yards from the shore was only eighteen inches deep. For it is the abiding hope of Belpher Creek that it may be able to deceive the occasional visitor into mistaking it for the open sea. And presently the tide would ebb. The waste of waters became a sea of mud, cheerfully covered as to much of its surface with green grasses. The evening sun struck rainbow colours from the moist softness. Birds sang in the thickets. And George, heaving himself up, walked back to the friendly cosiness of the Marshmoreton Arms. And the remarkable part of it was that everything seemed perfectly natural and sensible to him, nor had he any particular feeling that in falling in love with Lady Maud Marsh and pursuing her to Belpher he had set himself anything in the nature of a hopeless task. Like one kissed by a goddess in a dream, he walked on air; and, while one is walking on air, it is easy to overlook the boulders in the path. Consider his position, you faint-hearted and self-pitying young men who think you have a tough row to hoe just because, when you pay your evening visit with the pound box of candy under your arm, you see the handsome sophomore from Yale sitting beside her on the porch, playing the ukulele. If ever the world has turned black to you in such a situation and the moon gone in behind a cloud, think of George Bevan and what he was up against. You are at least on the spot. You can at least put up a fight. If there are ukuleles in the world, there are also guitars, and tomorrow it may be you and not he who sits on the moonlit porch; it may be he and not you who arrives late. Who knows? Tomorrow he may not show up till you have finished the Bedouin's Love Song and are annoying the local birds, roosting in the trees, with Poor Butterfly. What I mean to say is, you are on the map. You have a sporting chance. Whereas George... Well, just go over to England and try wooing an earl's daughter whom you have only met once--and then without an introduction; whose brother's hat you have smashed beyond repair; whose family wishes her to marry some other man: who wants to marry some other man herself--and not the same other man, but another other man; who is closely immured in a mediaeval castle . . . Well, all I say is--try it. And then go back to your porch with a chastened spirit and admit that you might be a whole lot worse off. George, as I say, had not envisaged the peculiar difficulties of his position. Nor did he until the evening of his second day at the Marshmoreton Arms. Until then, as I have indicated, he roamed in a golden mist of dreamy meditation among the soothing by-ways of the village of Belpher. But after lunch on the second day it came upon him that all this sort of thing was pleasant but not practical. Action was what was needed. Action. The first, the obvious move was to locate the castle. Inquiries at the Marshmoreton Arms elicited the fact that it was "a step" up the road that ran past the front door of the inn. But this wasn't the day of the week when the general public was admitted. The sightseer could invade Belpher Castle on Thursdays only, between the hours of two and four. On other days of the week all he could do was to stand like Moses on Pisgah and take in the general effect from a distance. As this was all that George had hoped to be able to do, he set forth. It speedily became evident to George that "a step" was a euphemism. Five miles did he tramp before, trudging wearily up a winding lane, he came out on a breeze-swept hill-top, and saw below him, nestling in its trees, what was now for him the centre of the world. He sat on a stone wall and lit a pipe. Belpher Castle. Maud's home. There it was. And now what? The first thought that came to him was practical, even prosaic-- the thought that he couldn't possibly do this five-miles-there and-five-miles-back walk, every time he wanted to see the place. He must shift his base nearer the scene of operations. One of those trim, thatched cottages down there in the valley would be just the thing, if he could arrange to take possession of it. They sat there all round the castle, singly and in groups, like small dogs round their master. They looked as if they had been there for centuries. Probably they had, as they were made of stone as solid as that of the castle. There must have been a time, thought George, when the castle was the central rallying-point for all those scattered homes; when rumour of danger from marauders had sent all that little community scuttling for safety to the sheltering walls. For the first time since he had set out on his expedition, a certain chill, a discomforting sinking of the heart, afflicted George as he gazed down at the grim grey fortress which he had undertaken to storm. So must have felt those marauders of old when they climbed to the top of this very hill to spy out the land. And George's case was even worse than theirs. They could at least hope that a strong arm and a stout heart would carry them past those solid walls; they had not to think of social etiquette. Whereas George was so situated that an unsympathetic butler could put him to rout by refusing him admittance. The evening was drawing in. Already, in the brief time he had spent on the hill-top, the sky had turned from blue to saffron and from saffron to grey. The plaintive voices of homing cows floated up to him from the valley below. A bat had left its shelter and was wheeling around him, a sinister blot against the sky. A sickle moon gleamed over the trees. George felt cold. He turned. The shadows of night wrapped him round, and little things in the hedgerows chirped and chittered mockery at him as he stumbled down the lane. George's request for a lonely furnished cottage somewhere in the neighbourhood of the castle did not, as he had feared, strike the Belpher house-agent as the demand of a lunatic. Every well-dressed stranger who comes to Belpher is automatically set down by the natives as an artist, for the picturesqueness of the place has caused it to be much infested by the brothers and sisters of the brush. In asking for a cottage, indeed, George did precisely as Belpher society expected him to do; and the agent was reaching for his list almost before the words were out of his mouth. In less than half an hour George was out in the street again, the owner for the season of what the agent described as a "gem" and the employer of a farmer's wife who lived near-by and would, as was her custom with artists, come in the morning and evening to "do" for him. The interview would have taken but a few minutes, had it not been prolonged by the chattiness of the agent on the subject of the occupants of the castle, to which George listened attentively. He was not greatly encouraged by what he heard of Lord Marshmoreton. The earl had made himself notably unpopular in the village recently by his firm--the house-agent said "pig-headed"--attitude in respect to a certain dispute about a right-of-way. It was Lady Caroline, and not the easy-going peer, who was really to blame in the matter; but the impression that George got from the house-agent's description of Lord Marshmoreton was that the latter was a sort of Nero, possessing, in addition to the qualities of a Roman tyrant, many of the least lovable traits of the ghila monster of Arizona. Hearing this about her father, and having already had the privilege of meeting her brother and studying him at first hand, his heart bled for Maud. It seemed to him that existence at the castle in such society must be little short of torture. "I must do something," he muttered. "I must do something quick." "Beg pardon," said the house-agent. "Nothing," said George. "Well, I'll take that cottage. I'd better write you a cheque for the first month's rent now." So George took up his abode, full of strenuous--if vague--purpose, in the plainly-furnished but not uncomfortable cottage known locally as "the one down by Platt's." He might have found a worse billet. It was a two-storied building of stained red brick, not one of the thatched nests on which he had looked down from the hill. Those were not for rent, being occupied by families whose ancestors had occupied them for generations back. The one down by Platt's was a more modern structure--a speculation, in fact, of the farmer whose wife came to "do" for George, and designed especially to accommodate the stranger who had the desire and the money to rent it. It so departed from type that it possessed a small but undeniable bath-room. Besides this miracle, there was a cosy sitting-room, a larger bedroom on the floor above and next to this an empty room facing north, which had evidently served artist occupants as a studio. The remainder of the ground floor was taken up by kitchen and scullery. The furniture had been constructed by somebody who would probably have done very well if he had taken up some other line of industry; but it was mitigated by a very fine and comfortable wicker easy chair, left there by one of last year's artists; and other artists had helped along the good work by relieving the plainness of the walls with a landscape or two. In fact, when George had removed from the room two antimacassars, three group photographs of the farmer's relations, an illuminated text, and a china statuette of the Infant Samuel, and stacked them in a corner of the empty studio, the place became almost a home from home. Solitude can be very unsolitary if a man is in love. George never even began to be bored. The only thing that in any way troubled his peace was the thought that he was not accomplishing a great deal in the matter of helping Maud out of whatever trouble it was that had befallen her. The most he could do was to prowl about roads near the castle in the hope of an accidental meeting. And such was his good fortune that, on the fourth day of his vigil, the accidental meeting occurred. Taking his morning prowl along the lanes, he was rewarded by the sight of a grey racing-car at the side of the road. It was empty, but from underneath it protruded a pair of long legs, while beside it stood a girl, at the sight of whom George's heart began to thump so violently that the long-legged one might have been pardoned had he supposed that his engine had started again of its own volition. Until he spoke the soft grass had kept her from hearing his approach. He stopped close behind her, and cleared his throat. She started and turned, and their eyes met. For a moment hers were empty of any recognition. Then they lit up. She caught her breath quickly, and a faint flush came into her face. "Can I help you?" asked George. The long legs wriggled out into the road followed by a long body. The young man under the car sat up, turning a grease-streaked and pleasant face to George. "Eh, what?" "Can I help you? I know how to fix a car." The young man beamed in friendly fashion. "It's awfully good of you, old chap, but so do I. It's the only thing I can do well. Thanks very much and so forth all the same." George fastened his eyes on the girl's. She had not spoken. "If there is anything in the world I can possibly do for you," he said slowly, "I hope you will let me know. I should like above all things to help you." The girl spoke. "Thank you," she said in a low voice almost inaudible. George walked away. The grease-streaked young man followed him with his gaze. "Civil cove, that," he said. "Rather gushing though, what? American, wasn't he?" "Yes. I think he was." "Americans are the civillest coves I ever struck. I remember asking the way of a chappie at Baltimore a couple of years ago when I was there in my yacht, and he followed me for miles, shrieking advice and encouragement. I thought it deuced civil of him." "I wish you would hurry up and get the car right, Reggie. We shall be awfully late for lunch." Reggie Byng began to slide backwards under the car. "All right, dear heart. Rely on me. It's something quite simple." "Well, do be quick." "Imitation of greased lightning--very difficult," said Reggie encouragingly. "Be patient. Try and amuse yourself somehow. Ask yourself a riddle. Tell yourself a few anecdotes. I'll be with you in a moment. I say, I wonder what the cove is doing at Belpher? Deuced civil cove," said Reggie approvingly. "I liked him. And now, business of repairing breakdown." His smiling face vanished under the car like the Cheshire cat. Maud stood looking thoughtfully down the road in the direction in which George had disappeared. CHAPTER 8. The following day was a Thursday and on Thursdays, as has been stated, Belpher Castle was thrown open to the general public between the hours of two and four. It was a tradition of long standing, this periodical lowering of the barriers, and had always been faithfully observed by Lord Marshmoreton ever since his accession to the title. By the permanent occupants of the castle the day was regarded with mixed feelings. Lord Belpher, while approving of it in theory, as he did of all the family traditions--for he was a great supporter of all things feudal, and took his position as one of the hereditary aristocracy of Great Britain extremely seriously--heartily disliked it in practice. More than once he had been obliged to exit hastily by a further door in order to keep from being discovered by a drove of tourists intent on inspecting the library or the great drawing-room; and now it was his custom to retire to his bedroom immediately after lunch and not to emerge until the tide of invasion had ebbed away. Keggs, the butler, always looked forward to Thursdays with pleasurable anticipation. He enjoyed the sense of authority which it gave him to herd these poor outcasts to and fro among the surroundings which were an everyday commonplace to himself. Also he liked hearing the sound of his own voice as it lectured in rolling periods on the objects of interest by the way-side. But even to Keggs there was a bitter mixed with the sweet. No one was better aware than himself that the nobility of his manner, excellent as a means of impressing the mob, worked against him when it came to a question of tips. Again and again had he been harrowed by the spectacle of tourists, huddled together like sheep, debating among themselves in nervous whispers as to whether they could offer this personage anything so contemptible as half a crown for himself and deciding that such an insult was out of the question. It was his endeavour, especially towards the end of the proceedings, to cultivate a manner blending a dignity fitting his position with a sunny geniality which would allay the timid doubts of the tourist and indicate to him that, bizarre as the idea might seem, there was nothing to prevent him placing his poor silver in more worthy hands. Possibly the only member of the castle community who was absolutely indifferent to these public visits was Lord Marshmoreton. He made no difference between Thursday and any other day. Precisely as usual he donned his stained corduroys and pottered about his beloved garden; and when, as happened on an average once a quarter, some visitor, strayed from the main herd, came upon him as he worked and mistook him for one of the gardeners, he accepted the error without any attempt at explanation, sometimes going so far as to encourage it by adopting a rustic accent in keeping with his appearance. This sort of thing tickled the simple-minded peer. George joined the procession punctually at two o'clock, just as Keggs was clearing his throat preparatory to saying, "We are now in the main 'all, and before going any further I would like to call your attention to Sir Peter Lely's portrait of--" It was his custom to begin his Thursday lectures with this remark, but today it was postponed; for, no sooner had George appeared, than a breezy voice on the outskirts of the throng spoke in a tone that made competition impossible. "For goodness' sake, George." And Billie Dore detached herself from the group, a trim vision in blue. She wore a dust-coat and a motor veil, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing from the fresh air. "For goodness' sake, George, what are you doing here?" "I was just going to ask you the same thing." "Oh, I motored down with a boy I know. We had a breakdown just outside the gates. We were on our way to Brighton for lunch. He suggested I should pass the time seeing the sights while he fixed up the sprockets or the differential gear or whatever it was. He's coming to pick me up when he's through. But, on the level, George, how do you get this way? You sneak out of town and leave the show flat, and nobody has a notion where you are. Why, we were thinking of advertising for you, or going to the police or something. For all anybody knew, you might have been sandbagged or dropped in the river." This aspect of the matter had not occurred to George till now. His sudden descent on Belpher had seemed to him the only natural course to pursue. He had not realized that he would be missed, and that his absence might have caused grave inconvenience to a large number of people. "I never thought of that. I--well, I just happened to come here." "You aren't living in this old castle?" "Not quite. I've a cottage down the road. I wanted a few days in the country so I rented it." "But what made you choose this place?" Keggs, who had been regarding these disturbers of the peace with dignified disapproval, coughed. "If you would not mind, madam. We are waiting." "Eh? How's that?" Miss Dore looked up with a bright smile. "I'm sorry. Come along, George. Get in the game." She nodded cheerfully to the butler. "All right. All set now. You may fire when ready, Gridley." Keggs bowed austerely, and cleared his throat again. "We are now in the main 'all, and before going any further I would like to call your attention to Sir Peter Lely's portrait of the fifth countess. Said by experts to be in his best manner." There was an almost soundless murmur from the mob, expressive of wonder and awe, like a gentle breeze rustling leaves. Billie Dore resumed her conversation in a whisper. "Yes, there was an awful lot of excitement when they found that you had disappeared. They were phoning the Carlton every ten minutes trying to get you. You see, the summertime number flopped on the second night, and they hadn't anything to put in its place. But it's all right. They took it out and sewed up the wound, and now you'd never know there had been anything wrong. The show was ten minutes too long, anyway." "How's the show going?" "It's a riot. They think it will run two years in London. As far as I can make it out you don't call it a success in London unless you can take your grandchildren to see the thousandth night." "That's splendid. And how is everybody? All right?" "Fine. That fellow Gray is still hanging round Babe. It beats me what she sees in him. Anybody but an infant could see the man wasn't on the level. Well, I don't blame you for quitting London, George. This sort of thing is worth fifty Londons." The procession had reached one of the upper rooms, and they were looking down from a window that commanded a sweep of miles of the countryside, rolling and green and wooded. Far away beyond the last covert Belpher Bay gleamed like a streak of silver. Billie Dore gave a little sigh. "There's nothing like this in the world. I'd like to stand here for the rest of my life, just lapping it up." "I will call your attention," boomed Keggs at their elbow, "to this window, known in the fem'ly tredition as Leonard's Leap. It was in the year seventeen 'undred and eighty-seven that Lord Leonard Forth, eldest son of 'Is Grace the Dook of Lochlane, 'urled 'imself out of this window in order to avoid compromising the beautiful Countess of Marshmoreton, with oom 'e is related to 'ave 'ad a ninnocent romance. Surprised at an advanced hour by 'is lordship the earl in 'er ladyship's boudoir, as this room then was, 'e leaped through the open window into the boughs of the cedar tree which stands below, and was fortunate enough to escape with a few 'armless contusions." A murmur of admiration greeted the recital of the ready tact of this eighteenth-century Steve Brodie. "There," said Billie enthusiastically, "that's exactly what I mean about this country. It's just a mass of Leonard's Leaps and things. I'd like to settle down in this sort of place and spend the rest of my life milking cows and taking forkfuls of soup to the deserving villagers." "We will now," said Keggs, herding the mob with a gesture, "proceed to the Amber Drawing-Room, containing some Gobelin Tapestries 'ighly spoken of by connoozers." The obedient mob began to drift out in his wake. "What do you say, George," asked Billie in an undertone, "if we side-step the Amber Drawing-Room? I'm wild to get into that garden. There's a man working among those roses. Maybe he would show us round." George followed her pointing finger. Just below them a sturdy, brown-faced man in corduroys was pausing to light a stubby pipe. "Just as you like." They made their way down the great staircase. The voice of Keggs, saying complimentary things about the Gobelin Tapestry, came to their ears like the roll of distant drums. They wandered out towards the rose-garden. The man in corduroys had lit his pipe and was bending once more to his task. "Well, dadda," said Billie amiably, "how are the crops?" The man straightened himself. He was a nice-looking man of middle age, with the kind eyes of a friendly dog. He smiled genially, and started to put his pipe away. Billie stopped him. "Don't stop smoking on my account," she said. "I like it. Well, you've got the right sort of a job, haven't you! If I was a man, there's nothing I'd like better than to put in my eight hours in a rose-garden." She looked about her. "And this," she said with approval, "is just what a rose-garden ought to be." "Are you fond of roses--missy?" "You bet I am! You must have every kind here that was ever invented. All the fifty-seven varieties." "There are nearly three thousand varieties," said the man in corduroys tolerantly. "I was speaking colloquially, dadda. You can't teach me anything about roses. I'm the guy that invented them. Got any Ayrshires?" The man in corduroys seemed to have come to the conclusion that Billie was the only thing on earth that mattered. This revelation of a kindred spirit had captured him completely. George was merely among those present. "Those--them--over there are Ayrshires, missy." "We don't get Ayrshires in America. At least, I never ran across them. I suppose they do have them." "You want the right soil." "Clay and lots of rain." "You're right." There was an earnest expression on Billie Dore's face that George had never seen there before. "Say, listen, dadda, in this matter of rose-beetles, what would you do if--" George moved away. The conversation was becoming too technical for him, and he had an idea that he would not be missed. There had come to him, moreover, in a flash one of those sudden inspirations which great generals get. He had visited the castle this afternoon without any settled plan other than a vague hope that he might somehow see Maud. He now perceived that there was no chance of doing this. Evidently, on Thursdays, the family went to earth and remained hidden until the sightseers had gone. But there was another avenue of communication open to him. This gardener seemed an exceptionally intelligent man. He could be trusted to deliver a note to Maud. In his late rambles about Belpher Castle in the company of Keggs and his followers, George had been privileged to inspect the library. It was an easily accessible room, opening off the main hall. He left Billie and her new friend deep in a discussion of slugs and plant-lice, and walked quickly back to the house. The library was unoccupied. George was a thorough young man. He believed in leaving nothing to chance. The gardener had seemed a trustworthy soul, but you never knew. It was possible that he drank. He might forget or lose the precious note. So, with a wary eye on the door, George hastily scribbled it in duplicate. This took him but a few minutes. He went out into the garden again to find Billie Dore on the point of stepping into a blue automobile. "Oh, there you are, George. I wondered where you had got to. Say, I made quite a hit with dadda. I've given him my address, and he's promised to send me a whole lot of roses. By the way, shake hands with Mr. Forsyth. This is George Bevan, Freddie, who wrote the music of our show." The solemn youth at the wheel extended a hand. "Topping show. Topping music. Topping all round." "Well, good-bye, George. See you soon, I suppose?" "Oh, yes. Give my love to everybody." "All right. Let her rip, Freddie. Good-bye." "Good-bye." The blue car gathered speed and vanished down the drive. George returned to the man in corduroys, who had bent himself double in pursuit of a slug. "Just a minute," said George hurriedly. He pulled out the first of the notes. "Give this to Lady Maud the first chance you get. It's important. Here's a sovereign for your trouble." He hastened away. He noticed that gratification had turned the other nearly purple in the face, and was anxious to leave him. He was a modest young man, and effusive thanks always embarrassed him. There now remained the disposal of the duplicate note. It was hardly worth while, perhaps, taking such a precaution, but George knew that victories are won by those who take no chances. He had wandered perhaps a hundred yards from the rose-garden when he encountered a small boy in the many-buttoned uniform of a page. The boy had appeared from behind a big cedar, where, as a matter of fact, he had been smoking a stolen cigarette. "Do you want to earn half a crown?" asked George. The market value of messengers had slumped. The stripling held his hand out. "Give this note to Lady Maud." "Right ho!" "See that it reaches her at once." George walked off with the consciousness of a good day's work done. Albert the page, having bitten his half-crown, placed it in his pocket. Then he hurried away, a look of excitement and gratification in his deep blue eyes. CHAPTER 9. While George and Billie Dore wandered to the rose garden to interview the man in corduroys, Maud had been seated not a hundred yards away--in a very special haunt of her own, a cracked stucco temple set up in the days of the Regency on the shores of a little lily-covered pond. She was reading poetry to Albert the page. Albert the page was a recent addition to Maud's inner circle. She had interested herself in him some two months back in much the same spirit as the prisoner in his dungeon cell tames and pets the conventional mouse. To educate Albert, to raise him above his groove in life and develop his soul, appealed to her romantic nature as a worthy task, and as a good way of filling in the time. It is an exceedingly moot point--and one which his associates of the servants' hall would have combated hotly--whether Albert possessed a soul. The most one could say for certain is that he looked as if he possessed one. To one who saw his deep blue eyes and their sweet, pensive expression as they searched the middle distance he seemed like a young angel. How was the watcher to know that the thought behind that far-off gaze was simply a speculation as to whether the bird on the cedar tree was or was not within range of his catapult? Certainly Maud had no such suspicion. She worked hopefully day by day to rouse Albert to an appreciation of the nobler things of life. Not but what it was tough going. Even she admitted that. Albert's soul did not soar readily. It refused to leap from the earth. His reception of the poem she was reading could scarcely have been called encouraging. Maud finished it in a hushed voice, and looked pensively across the dappled water of the pool. A gentle breeze stirred the water-lilies, so that they seemed to sigh. "Isn't that beautiful, Albert?" she said. Albert's blue eyes lit up. His lips parted eagerly, "That's the first hornet I seen this year," he said pointing. Maud felt a little damped. "Haven't you been listening, Albert?" "Oh, yes, m'lady! Ain't he a wopper, too?" "Never mind the hornet, Albert." "Very good, m'lady." "I wish you wouldn't say 'Very good, m'lady'. It's like--like--" She paused. She had been about to say that it was like a butler, but, she reflected regretfully, it was probably Albert's dearest ambition to be like a butler. "It doesn't sound right. Just say 'Yes'." "Yes, m'lady." Maud was not enthusiastic about the 'M'lady', but she let it go. After all, she had not quite settled in her own mind what exactly she wished Albert's attitude towards herself to be. Broadly speaking, she wanted him to be as like as he could to a medieval page, one of those silk-and-satined little treasures she had read about in the Ingoldsby Legends. And, of course, they presumably said 'my lady'. And yet--she felt--not for the first time--that it is not easy, to revive the Middle Ages in these curious days. Pages like other things, seem to have changed since then. "That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of my ancestresses. He ran away with her from this very castle in the seventeenth century." "Lor'", said Albert as a concession, but he was still interested in the hornet. "He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what a wonderful man he was, so she didn't mind what people said about her marrying beneath her." "Like Susan when she married the pleeceman." "Who was Susan?" "Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er, 'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard 'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says, 'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says." This translation of a favourite romance into terms of the servants' hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it. "Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert," she said perseveringly, "and become a great poet and write wonderful poems?" Albert considered the point, and shook his head. "No, m'lady." It was discouraging. But Maud was a girl of pluck. You cannot leap into strange cabs in Piccadilly unless you have pluck. She picked up another book from the stone seat. "Read me some of this," she said, "and then tell me if it doesn't make you feel you want to do big things." Albert took the book cautiously. He was getting a little fed up with all this sort of thing. True, 'er ladyship gave him chocolates to eat during these sessions, but for all that it was too much like school for his taste. He regarded the open page with disfavour. "Go on," said Maud, closing her eyes. "It's very beautiful." Albert began. He had a husky voice, due, it is to be feared, to precocious cigarette smoking, and his enunciation was not as good as it might have been. "Wiv' blekest morss the flower-ports Was-I mean were-crusted one and orl; Ther rusted niles fell from the knorts That 'eld the pear to the garden-worll. Ther broken sheds looked sed and stringe; Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn their ancient thatch Er-pon ther lownely moated gringe, She only said 'Me life is dreary, 'E cometh not,' she said." Albert rather liked this part. He was never happy in narrative unless it could be sprinkled with a plentiful supply of "he said's" and "she said's." He finished with some gusto. "She said - I am aweary, aweary, I would that I was dead." Maud had listened to this rendition of one of her most adored poems with much the same feeling which a composer with an over-sensitive ear would suffer on hearing his pet opus assassinated by a schoolgirl. Albert, who was a willing lad and prepared, if such should be her desire, to plough his way through the entire seven stanzas, began the second verse, but Maud gently took the book away from him. Enough was sufficient. "Now, wouldn't you like to be able to write a wonderful thing like that, Albert?" "Not me, m'lady." "You wouldn't like to be a poet when you grow up?" Albert shook his golden head. "I want to be a butcher when I grow up, m'lady." Maud uttered a little cry. "A butcher?" "Yus, m'lady. Butchers earn good money," he said, a light of enthusiasm in his blue eyes, for he was now on his favourite subject. "You've got to 'ave meat, yer see, m'lady. It ain't like poetry, m'lady, which no one wants." "But, Albert," cried Maud faintly. "Killing poor animals. Surely you wouldn't like that?" Albert's eyes glowed softly, as might an acolyte's at the sight of the censer. "Mr. Widgeon down at the 'ome farm," he murmured reverently, "he says, if I'm a good boy, 'e'll let me watch 'im kill a pig Toosday." He gazed out over the water-lilies, his thoughts far away. Maud shuddered. She wondered if medieval pages were ever quite as earthy as this. "Perhaps you had better go now, Albert. They may be needing you in the house." "Very good, m'lady." Albert rose, not unwilling to call it a day. He was conscious of the need for a quiet cigarette. He was fond of Maud, but a man can't spend all his time with the women. "Pigs squeal like billy-o, m'lady!" he observed by way of adding a parting treasure to Maud's stock of general knowledge. "Oo! 'Ear 'em a mile orf, you can!" Maud remained where she was, thinking, a wistful figure. Tennyson's "Mariana" always made her wistful even when rendered by Albert. In the occasional moods of sentimental depression which came to vary her normal cheerfulness, it seemed to her that the poem might have been written with a prophetic eye to her special case, so nearly did it crystallize in magic words her own story. "With blackest moss the flower-pots Were thickly crusted, one and all." Well, no, not that particular part, perhaps. If he had found so much as one flower-pot of his even thinly crusted with any foreign substance, Lord Marshmoreton would have gone through the place like an east wind, dismissing gardeners and under-gardeners with every breath. But-- "She only said 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said. She said 'I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were dead!" How exactly--at these moments when she was not out on the links picking them off the turf with a midiron or engaged in one of those other healthful sports which tend to take the mind off its troubles--those words summed up her case. Why didn't Geoffrey come? Or at least write? She could not write to him. Letters from the castle left only by way of the castle post-bag, which Rogers, the chauffeur, took down to the village every evening. Impossible to entrust the kind of letter she wished to write to any mode of delivery so public--especially now, when her movements were watched. To open and read another's letters is a low and dastardly act, but she believed that Lady Caroline would do it like a shot. She longed to pour out her heart to Geoffrey in a long, intimate letter, but she did not dare to take the risk of writing for a wider public. Things were bad enough as it was, after that disastrous sortie to London. At this point a soothing vision came to her--the vision of George Bevan knocking off her brother Percy's hat. It was the only pleasant thing that had happened almost as far back as she could remember. And then, for the first time, her mind condescended to dwell for a moment on the author of that act, George Bevan, the friend in need, whom she had met only the day before in the lane. What was George doing at Belpher? His presence there was significant, and his words even more so. He had stated explicitly that he wished to help her. She found herself oppressed by the irony of things. A knight had come to the rescue--but the wrong knight. Why could it not have been Geoffrey who waited in ambush outside the castle, and not a pleasant but negligible stranger? Whether, deep down in her consciousness, she was aware of a fleeting sense of disappointment in Geoffrey, a swiftly passing thought that he had failed her, she could hardly have said, so quickly did she crush it down. She pondered on the arrival of George. What was the use of his being somewhere in the neighbourhood if she had no means of knowing where she could find him? Situated as she was, she could not wander at will about the countryside, looking for him. And, even if she found him, what then? There was not much that any stranger, however pleasant, could do. She flushed at a sudden thought. Of course there was something George could do for her if he were willing. He could receive, despatch and deliver letters. If only she could get in touch with him, she could--through him--get in touch with Geoffrey. The whole world changed for her. The sun was setting and chill little winds had begun to stir the lily-pads, giving a depressing air to the scene, but to Maud it seemed as if all Nature smiled. With the egotism of love, she did not perceive that what she proposed to ask George to do was practically to fulfil the humble role of the hollow tree in which lovers dump letters, to be extracted later; she did not consider George's feelings at all. He had offered to help her, and this was his job. The world is full of Georges whose task it is to hang about in the background and make themselves unobtrusively useful. She had reached this conclusion when Albert, who had taken a short cut the more rapidly to accomplish his errand, burst upon her dramatically from the heart of a rhododendron thicket. "M'lady! Gentleman give me this to give yer!" Maud read the note. It was brief, and to the point. "I am staying near the castle at a cottage they call 'the one down by Platt's'. It is a rather new, red-brick place. You can easily find it. I shall be waiting there if you want me." It was signed "The Man in the Cab". "Do you know a cottage called 'the one down by Platt's', Albert?" asked Maud. "Yes, m'lady. It's down by Platt's farm. I see a chicken killed there Wednesday week. Do you know, m'lady, after a chicken's 'ead is cut orf, it goes running licketty-split?" Maud shivered slightly. Albert's fresh young enthusiasms frequently jarred upon her. "I find a friend of mine is staying there. I want you to take a note to him from me." "Very good, m'lady." "And, Albert--" "Yes, m'lady?" "Perhaps it would be as well if you said nothing about this to any of your friends." In Lord Marshmoreton's study a council of three was sitting in debate. The subject under discussion was that other note which George had written and so ill-advisedly entrusted to one whom he had taken for a guileless gardener. The council consisted of Lord Marshmoreton, looking rather shamefaced, his son Percy looking swollen and serious, and Lady Caroline Byng, looking like a tragedy queen. "This," Lord Belpher was saying in a determined voice, "settles it. From now on Maud must not be allowed out of our sight." Lord Marshmoreton spoke. "I rather wish," he said regretfully, "I hadn't spoken about the note. I only mentioned it because I thought you might think it amusing." "Amusing!" Lady Caroline's voice shook the furniture. "Amusing that the fellow should have handed me of all people a letter for Maud," explained her brother. "I don't want to get Maud into trouble." "You are criminally weak," said Lady Caroline severely. "I really honestly believe that you were capable of giving the note to that poor, misguided girl, and saying nothing about it." She flushed. "The insolence of the man, coming here and settling down at the very gates of the castle! If it was anybody but this man Platt who was giving him shelter I should insist on his being turned out. But that man Platt would be only too glad to know that he is causing us annoyance." "Quite!" said Lord Belpher. "You must go to this man as soon as possible," continued Lady Caroline, fixing her brother with a commanding stare, "and do your best to make him see how abominable his behaviour is." "Oh, I couldn't!" pleaded the earl. "I don't know the fellow. He'd throw me out." "Nonsense. Go at the very earliest opportunity." "Oh, all right, all right, all right. Well, I think I'll be slipping out to the rose garden again now. There's a clear hour before dinner." There was a tap at the door. Alice Faraday entered bearing papers, a smile of sweet helpfulness on her pretty face. "I hoped I should find you here, Lord Marshmoreton. You promised to go over these notes with me, the ones about the Essex branch--" The hunted peer looked as if he were about to dive through the window. "Some other time, some other time. I--I have important matters--" "Oh, if you're busy--" "Of course, Lord Marshmoreton will be delighted to work on your notes, Miss Faraday," said Lady Caroline crisply. "Take this chair. We are just going." Lord Marshmoreton gave one wistful glance through the open window. Then he sat down with a sigh, and felt for his reading-glasses. CHAPTER 10. Your true golfer is a man who, knowing that life is short and perfection hard to attain, neglects no opportunity of practising his chosen sport, allowing neither wind nor weather nor any external influence to keep him from it. There is a story, with an excellent moral lesson, of a golfer whose wife had determined to leave him for ever. "Will nothing alter your decision?" he says. "Will nothing induce you to stay? Well, then, while you're packing, I think I'll go out on the lawn and rub up my putting a bit." George Bevan was of this turn of mind. He might be in love; romance might have sealed him for her own; but that was no reason for blinding himself to the fact that his long game was bound to suffer if he neglected to keep himself up to the mark. His first act on arriving at Belpher village had been to ascertain whether there was a links in the neighbourhood; and thither, on the morning after his visit to the castle and the delivery of the two notes, he repaired. At the hour of the day which he had selected the club-house was empty, and he had just resigned himself to a solitary game, when, with a whirr and a rattle, a grey racing-car drove up, and from it emerged the same long young man whom, a couple of days earlier, he had seen wriggle out from underneath the same machine. It was Reggie Byng's habit also not to allow anything, even love, to interfere with golf; and not even the prospect of hanging about the castle grounds in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice Faraday and exchanging timorous words with her had been enough to keep him from the links. Reggie surveyed George with a friendly eye. He had a dim recollection of having seen him before somewhere at some time or other, and Reggie had the pleasing disposition which caused him to rank anybody whom he had seen somewhere at some time or other as a bosom friend. "Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!" he observed. "Good morning," said George. "Waiting for somebody?" "No." "How about it, then? Shall we stagger forth?" "Delighted." George found himself speculating upon Reggie. He was unable to place him. That he was a friend of Maud he knew, and guessed that he was also a resident of the castle. He would have liked to question Reggie, to probe him, to collect from him inside information as to the progress of events within the castle walls; but it is a peculiarity of golf, as of love, that it temporarily changes the natures of its victims; and Reggie, a confirmed babbler off the links, became while in action a stern, silent, intent person, his whole being centred on the game. With the exception of a casual remark of a technical nature when he met George on the various tees, and an occasional expletive when things went wrong with his ball, he eschewed conversation. It was not till the end of the round that he became himself again. "If I'd known you were such hot stuff," he declared generously, as George holed his eighteenth putt from a distance of ten feet, "I'd have got you to give me a stroke or two." "I was on my game today," said George modestly. "Sometimes I slice as if I were cutting bread and can't putt to hit a haystack." "Let me know when one of those times comes along, and I'll take you on again. I don't know when I've seen anything fruitier than the way you got out of the bunker at the fifteenth. It reminded me of a match I saw between--" Reggie became technical. At the end of his observations he climbed into the grey car. "Can I drop you anywhere?" "Thanks," said George. "If it's not taking you out your way." "I'm staying at Belpher Castle." "I live quite near there. Perhaps you'd care to come in and have a drink on your way?" "A ripe scheme," agreed Reggie Ten minutes in the grey car ate up the distance between the links and George's cottage. Reggie Byng passed these minutes, in the intervals of eluding carts and foiling the apparently suicidal intentions of some stray fowls, in jerky conversation on the subject of his iron-shots, with which he expressed a deep satisfaction. "Topping little place! Absolutely!" was the verdict he pronounced on the exterior of the cottage as he followed George in. "I've often thought it would be a rather sound scheme to settle down in this sort of shanty and keep chickens and grow a honey coloured beard, and have soup and jelly brought to you by the vicar's wife and so forth. Nothing to worry you then. Do you live all alone here?" George was busy squirting seltzer into his guest's glass. "Yes. Mrs. Platt comes in and cooks for me. The farmer's wife next door." An exclamation from the other caused him to look up. Reggie Byng was staring at him, wide-eyed. "Great Scott! Mrs. Platt! Then you're the Chappie?" George found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. "The Chappie?" "The Chappie there's all the row about. The mater was telling me only this morning that you lived here." "Is there a row about me?" "Is there what!" Reggie's manner became solicitous. "I say, my dear old sportsman, I don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings and what not, if you know what I mean, but didn't you know there was a certain amount of angry passion rising and so forth because of you? At the castle, I mean. I don't want to seem to be discussing your private affairs, and all that sort of thing, but what I mean is... Well, you don't expect you can come charging in the way you have without touching the family on the raw a bit. The daughter of the house falls in love with you; the son of the house languishes in chokey because he has a row with you in Piccadilly; and on top of all that you come here and camp out at the castle gates! Naturally the family are a bit peeved. Only natural, eh? I mean to say, what?" George listened to this address in bewilderment. Maud in love with him! It sounded incredible. That he should love her after their one meeting was a different thing altogether. That was perfectly natural and in order. But that he should have had the incredible luck to win her affection. The thing struck him as grotesque and ridiculous. "In love with me?" he cried. "What on earth do you mean?" Reggie's bewilderment equalled his own. "Well, dash it all, old top, it surely isn't news to you? She must have told you. Why, she told me!" "Told you? Am I going mad?" "Absolutely! I mean absolutely not! Look here." Reggie hesitated. The subject was delicate. But, once started, it might as well be proceeded with to some conclusion. A fellow couldn't go on talking about his iron-shots after this just as if nothing had happened. This was the time for the laying down of cards, the opening of hearts. "I say, you know," he went on, feeling his way, "you'll probably think it deuced rummy of me talking like this. Perfect stranger and what not. Don't even know each other's names." "Mine's Bevan, if that'll be any help." "Thanks very much, old chap. Great help! Mine's Byng. Reggie Byng. Well, as we're all pals here and the meeting's tiled and so forth, I'll start by saying that the mater is most deucedly set on my marrying Lady Maud. Been pals all our lives, you know. Children together, and all that sort of rot. Now there's nobody I think a more corking sportsman than Maud, if you know what I mean, but--this is where the catch comes in--I'm most frightfully in love with somebody else. Hopeless, and all that sort of thing, but still there it is. And all the while the mater behind me with a bradawl, sicking me on to propose to Maud who wouldn't have me if I were the only fellow on earth. You can't imagine, my dear old chap, what a relief it was to both of us when she told me the other day that she was in love with you, and wouldn't dream of looking at anybody else. I tell you, I went singing about the place." George felt inclined to imitate his excellent example. A burst of song was the only adequate expression of the mood of heavenly happiness which this young man's revelations had brought upon him. The whole world seemed different. Wings seemed to sprout from Reggie's shapely shoulders. The air was filled with soft music. Even the wallpaper seemed moderately attractive. He mixed himself a second whisky and soda. It was the next best thing to singing. "I see," he said. It was difficult to say anything. Reggie was regarding him enviously. "I wish I knew how the deuce fellows set about making a girl fall in love with them. Other chappies seem to do it, but I can't even start. She seems to sort of gaze through me, don't you know. She kind of looks at me as if I were more to be pitied than censured, but as if she thought I really ought to do something about it. Of course, she's a devilish brainy girl, and I'm a fearful chump. Makes it kind of hopeless, what?" George, in his new-born happiness, found a pleasure in encouraging a less lucky mortal. "Not a bit. What you ought to do is to--" "Yes?" said Reggie eagerly. George shook his head. "No, I don't know," he said. "Nor do I, dash it!" said Reggie. George pondered. "It seems to me it's purely a question of luck. Either you're lucky or you're not. Look at me, for instance. What is there about me to make a wonderful girl love me?" "Nothing! I see what you mean. At least, what I mean to say is--" "No. You were right the first time. It's all a question of luck. There's nothing anyone can do." "I hang about a good deal and get in her way," said Reggie. "She's always tripping over me. I thought that might help a bit." "It might, of course." "But on the other hand, when we do meet, I can't think of anything to say." "That's bad." "Deuced funny thing. I'm not what you'd call a silent sort of chappie by nature. But, when I'm with her--I don't know. It's rum!" He drained his glass and rose. "Well, I suppose I may as well be staggering. Don't get up. Have another game one of these days, what?" "Splendid. Any time you like." "Well, so long." "Good-bye." George gave himself up to glowing thoughts. For the first time in his life he seemed to be vividly aware of his own existence. It was as if he were some newly-created thing. Everything around him and everything he did had taken on a strange and novel interest. He seemed to notice the ticking of the clock for the first time. When he raised his glass the action had a curious air of newness. All his senses were oddly alert. He could even-- "How would it be," enquired Reggie, appearing in the doorway like part of a conjuring trick, "if I gave her a flower or two every now and then? Just thought of it as I was starting the car. She's fond of flowers." "Fine!" said George heartily. He had not heard a word. The alertness of sense which had come to him was accompanied by a strange inability to attend to other people's speech. This would no doubt pass, but meanwhile it made him a poor listener. "Well, it's worth trying," said Reggie. "I'll give it a whirl. Toodleoo!" "Good-bye." "Pip-pip!" Reggie withdrew, and presently came the noise of the car starting. George returned to his thoughts. Time, as we understand it, ceases to exist for a man in such circumstances. Whether it was a minute later or several hours, George did not know; but presently he was aware of a small boy standing beside him--a golden-haired boy with blue eyes, who wore the uniform of a page. He came out of his trance. This, he recognized, was the boy to whom he had given the note for Maud. He was different from any other intruder. He meant something in George's scheme of things. "'Ullo!" said the youth. "Hullo, Alphonso!" said George. "My name's not Alphonso." "Well, you be very careful or it soon may be." "Got a note for yer. From Lidy Mord." "You'll find some cake and ginger-ale in the kitchen," said the grateful George. "Give it a trial." "Not 'arf!" said the stripling. CHAPTER 11. George opened the letter with trembling and reverent fingers. "DEAR MR. BEVAN, "Thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind. . ." "Hey, mister!" George looked up testily. The boy Albert had reappeared. "What's the matter? Can't you find the cake?" "I've found the kike," rejoined Albert, adducing proof of the statement in the shape of a massive slice, from which he took a substantial bite to assist thought. "But I can't find the ginger ile." George waved him away. This interruption at such a moment was annoying. "Look for it, child, look for it! Sniff after it! Bay on its trail! It's somewhere about." "Wri'!" mumbled Albert through the cake. He flicked a crumb off his cheek with a tongue which would have excited the friendly interest of an ant-eater. "I like ginger-ile." "Well, go and bathe in it." "Wri'!" George returned to his letter. "DEAR MR. BEVAN, "Thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this and to say . . . "Hey, mister!" "Good Heavens!" George glared. "What's the matter now? Haven't you found that ginger-ale yet?" "I've found the ginger-ile right enough, but I can't find the thing." "The thing? What thing?" "The thing. The thing wot you open ginger-ile with." "Oh, you mean the thing? It's in the middle drawer of the dresser. Use your eyes, my boy!" "Wri'". George gave an overwrought sigh and began the letter again. "DEAR MR. BEVAN, "Thank you ever so much for your note which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this and to say that you would help me. And how clever of you to find me after I was so secretive that day in the cab! You really can help me, if you are willing. It's too long to explain in a note, but I am in great trouble, and there is nobody except you to help me. I will explain everything when I see you. The difficulty will be to slip away from home. They are watching me every moment, I'm afraid. But I will try my hardest to see you very soon. Yours sincerely, "MAUD MARSH." Just for a moment it must be confessed, the tone of the letter damped George. He could not have said just what he had expected, but certainly Reggie's revelations had prepared him for something rather warmer, something more in the style in which a girl would write to the man she loved. The next moment, however, he saw how foolish any such expectation had been. How on earth could any reasonable man expect a girl to let herself go at this stage of the proceedings? It was for him to make the first move. Naturally she wasn't going to reveal her feelings until he had revealed his. George raised the letter to his lips and kissed it vigorously. "Hey, mister!" George started guiltily. The blush of shame overspread his cheeks. The room seemed to echo with the sound of that fatuous kiss. "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" he called, snapping his fingers, and repeating the incriminating noise. "I was just calling my cat," he explained with dignity. "You didn't see her in there, did you?" Albert's blue eyes met his in a derisive stare. The lid of the left one fluttered. It was but too plain that Albert was not convinced. "A little black cat with white shirt-front," babbled George perseveringly. "She's usually either here or there, or--or somewhere. Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" The cupid's bow of Albert's mouth parted. He uttered one word. "Swank!" There was a tense silence. What Albert was thinking one cannot say. The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts. What George was thinking was that the late King Herod had been unjustly blamed for a policy which had been both statesmanlike and in the interests of the public. He was blaming the mawkish sentimentality of the modern legal system which ranks the evisceration and secret burial of small boys as a crime. "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean." "I've a good mind to--" Albert waved a deprecating hand. "It's all right, mister. I'm yer friend." "You are, are you? Well, don't let it about. I've got a reputation to keep up." "I'm yer friend, I tell you. I can help yer. I want to help yer!" George's views on infanticide underwent a slight modification. After all, he felt, much must be excused to Youth. Youth thinks it funny to see a man kissing a letter. It is not funny, of course; it is beautiful; but it's no good arguing the point. Let Youth have its snigger, provided, after it has finished sniggering, it intends to buckle to and be of practical assistance. Albert, as an ally, was not to be despised. George did not know what Albert's duties as a page-boy were, but they seemed to be of a nature that gave him plenty of leisure and freedom; and a friendly resident of the castle with leisure and freedom was just what he needed. "That's very good of you," he said, twisting his reluctant features into a fairly benevolent smile. "I can 'elp!" persisted Albert. "Got a cigaroot?" "Do you smoke, child?" "When I get 'old of a cigaroot I do." "I'm sorry I can't oblige you. I don't smoke cigarettes." "Then I'll 'ave to 'ave one of my own," said Albert moodily. He reached into the mysteries of his pocket and produced a piece of string, a knife, the wishbone of a fowl, two marbles, a crushed cigarette, and a match. Replacing the string, the knife, the wishbone and the marbles, he ignited the match against the tightest part of his person and lit the cigarette. "I can help yer. I know the ropes." "And smoke them," said George, wincing. "Pardon?" "Nothing." Albert took an enjoyable whiff. "I know all about yer." "You do?" "You and Lidy Mord." "Oh, you do, do you?" "I was listening at the key-'ole while the row was goin' on." "There was a row, was there?" A faint smile of retrospective enjoyment lit up Albert's face. "An orful row! Shoutin' and yellin' and cussin' all over the shop. About you and Lidy Maud." "And you drank it in, eh?" "Pardon?" "I say, you listened?" "Not 'arf I listened. Seeing I'd just drawn you in the sweepstike, of course, I listened--not 'arf!" George did not follow him here. "The sweepstike? What's a sweepstike?" "Why, a thing you puts names in 'ats and draw 'em and the one that gets the winning name wins the money." "Oh, you mean a sweepstake!" "That's wot I said--a sweepstike." George was still puzzled. "But I don't understand. How do you mean you drew me in a sweepstike--I mean a sweepstake? What sweepstake?" "Down in the servants' 'all. Keggs, the butler, started it. I 'eard 'im say he always 'ad one every place 'e was in as a butler-- leastways, whenever there was any dorters of the 'ouse. There's always a chance, when there's a 'ouse-party, of one of the dorters of the 'ouse gettin' married to one of the gents in the party, so Keggs 'e puts all of the gents' names in an 'at, and you pay five shillings for a chance, and the one that draws the winning name gets the money. And if the dorter of the 'ouse don't get married that time, the money's put away and added to the pool for the next 'ouse-party." George gasped. This revelation of life below stairs in the stately homes of England took his breath away. Then astonishment gave way to indignation. "Do you mean to tell me that you--you worms--made Lady Maud the--the prize of a sweepstake!" Albert was hurt. "Who're yer calling worms?" George perceived the need of diplomacy. After all much depended on this child's goodwill. "I was referring to the butler--what's his name--Keggs." "'E ain't a worm. 'E's a serpint." Albert drew at his cigarette. His brow darkened. "'E does the drawing, Keggs does, and I'd like to know 'ow it is 'e always manages to cop the fav'rit!" Albert chuckled. "But this time I done him proper. 'E didn't want me in the thing at all. Said I was too young. Tried to do the drawin' without me. 'Clip that boy one side of the 'ead!' 'e says, 'and turn 'im out!' 'e says. I says, 'Yus, you will!' I says. 'And wot price me goin' to 'is lordship and blowing the gaff?' I says. 'E says, 'Oh, orl right!' 'e says. 'Ave it yer own way!' 'e says. "'Where's yer five shillings?' 'e says. ''Ere yer are!' I says. 'Oh, very well,' 'e says. 'But you'll 'ave to draw last,' 'e says, 'bein' the youngest.' Well, they started drawing the names, and of course Keggs 'as to draw Mr. Byng." "Oh, he drew Mr. Byng, did he?" "Yus. And everyone knew Reggie was the fav'rit. Smiled all over his fat face, the old serpint did! And when it come to my turn, 'e says to me, 'Sorry, Elbert!' 'e says, 'but there ain't no more names. They've give out!' 'Oh, they 'ave, 'ave they?' I says, 'Well, wot's the matter with giving a fellow a sporting chance?' I says. 'Ow do you mean?' 'e says. 'Why, write me out a ticket marked "Mr. X.",' I says. 'Then, if 'er lidyship marries anyone not in the 'ouse-party, I cop!' 'Orl right,' 'e says, 'but you know the conditions of this 'ere sweep. Nothin' don't count only wot tikes plice during the two weeks of the 'ouse-party,' 'e says. 'Orl right,' I says. 'Write me ticket. It's a fair sportin' venture.' So 'e writes me out me ticket, with 'Mr. X.' on it, and I says to them all, I says, 'I'd like to 'ave witnesses', I says, 'to this 'ere thing. Do all you gents agree that if anyone not in the 'ouse-party and 'oo's name ain't on one of the other tickets marries 'er lidyship, I get the pool?' I says. They all says that's right, and then I says to 'em all straight out, I says, 'I 'appen to know', I says, 'that 'er lidyship is in love with a gent that's not in the party at all. An American gent,' I says. They wouldn't believe it at first, but, when Keggs 'ad put two and two together, and thought of one or two things that 'ad 'appened, 'e turned as white as a sheet and said it was a swindle and wanted the drawin' done over again, but the others says 'No', they says, 'it's quite fair,' they says, and one of 'em offered me ten bob slap out for my ticket. But I stuck to it, I did. And that," concluded Albert throwing the cigarette into the fire-place just in time to prevent a scorched finger, "that's why I'm going to 'elp yer!" There is probably no attitude of mind harder for the average man to maintain than that of aloof disapproval. George was an average man, and during the degrading recital just concluded he had found himself slipping. At first he had been revolted, then, in spite of himself, amused, and now, when all the facts were before him, he could induce his mind to think of nothing else than his good fortune in securing as an ally one who appeared to combine a precocious intelligence with a helpful lack of scruple. War is war, and love is love, and in each the practical man inclines to demand from his fellow-workers the punch rather than a lofty soul. A page boy replete with the finer feelings would have been useless in this crisis. Albert, who seemed, on the evidence of a short but sufficient acquaintance, to be a lad who would not recognize the finer feelings if they were handed to him on a plate with watercress round them, promised to be invaluable. Something in his manner told George that the child was bursting with schemes for his benefit. "Have some more cake, Albert," he said ingratiatingly. The boy shook his head. "Do," urged George. "Just a little slice." "There ain't no little slice," replied Albert with regret. "I've ate it all." He sighed and resumed. "I gotta scheme!" "Fine! What is it?" Albert knitted his brows. "It's like this. You want to see 'er lidyship, but you can't come to the castle, and she can't come to you--not with 'er fat brother dogging of 'er footsteps. That's it, ain't it? Or am I a liar?" George hastened to reassure him. "That is exactly it. What's the answer?" "I'll tell yer wot you can do. There's the big ball tonight 'cos of its bein' 'Is Nibs' comin'-of-age tomorrow. All the county'll be 'ere." "You think I could slip in and be taken for a guest?" Albert snorted contempt. "No, I don't think nothin' of the kind, not bein' a fat-head." George apologized. "But wot you could do's this. I 'eard Keggs torkin to the 'ouse-keeper about 'avin' to get in a lot of temp'y waiters to 'elp out for the night--" George reached forward and patted Albert on the head. "Don't mess my 'air, now," warned that youth coldly. "Albert, you're one of the great thinkers of the age. I could get into the castle as a waiter, and you could tell Lady Maud I was there, and we could arrange a meeting. Machiavelli couldn't have thought of anything smoother." "Mac Who?" "One of your ancestors. Great schemer in his day. But, one moment." "Now what?" "How am I to get engaged? How do I get the job?" "That's orl right. I'll tell the 'ousekeeper you're my cousin-- been a waiter in America at the best restaurongs--'ome for a 'oliday, but'll come in for one night to oblige. They'll pay yer a quid." "I'll hand it over to you." "Just," said Albert approvingly, "wot I was goin' to suggest myself." "Then I'll leave all the arrangements to you." "You'd better, if you don't want to mike a mess of everything. All you've got to do is to come to the servants' entrance at eight sharp tonight and say you're my cousin." "That's an awful thing to ask anyone to say." "Pardon?" "Nothing!" said George. CHAPTER 12. The great ball in honour of Lord Belpher's coming-of-age was at its height. The reporter of the Belpher Intelligencer and Farmers' Guide, who was present in his official capacity, and had been allowed by butler Keggs to take a peep at the scene through a side-door, justly observed in his account of the proceedings next day that the 'tout ensemble was fairylike', and described the company as 'a galaxy of fair women and brave men'. The floor was crowded with all that was best and noblest in the county; so that a half-brick, hurled at any given moment, must infallibly have spilt blue blood. Peers stepped on the toes of knights; honorables bumped into the spines of baronets. Probably the only titled person in the whole of the surrounding country who was not playing his part in the glittering scene was Lord Marshmoreton; who, on discovering that his private study had been converted into a cloakroom, had retired to bed with a pipe and a copy of Roses Red and Roses White, by Emily Ann Mackintosh (Popgood, Crooly & Co.), which he was to discover--after he was between the sheets, and it was too late to repair the error--was not, as he had supposed, a treatise on his favourite hobby, but a novel of stearine sentimentality dealing with the adventures of a pure young English girl and an artist named Claude. George, from the shaded seclusion of a gallery, looked down upon the brilliant throng with impatience. It seemed to him that he had been doing this all his life. The novelty of the experience had long since ceased to divert him. It was all just like the second act of an old-fashioned musical comedy (Act Two: The Ballroom, Grantchester Towers: One Week Later)--a resemblance which was heightened for him by the fact that the band had more than once played dead and buried melodies of his own composition, of which he had wearied a full eighteen months back. A complete absence of obstacles had attended his intrusion into the castle. A brief interview with a motherly old lady, whom even Albert seemed to treat with respect, and who, it appeared was Mrs. Digby, the house-keeper; followed by an even briefer encounter with Keggs (fussy and irritable with responsibility, and, even while talking to George carrying on two other conversations on topics of the moment), and he was past the censors and free for one night only to add his presence to the chosen inside the walls of Belpher. His duties were to stand in this gallery, and with the assistance of one of the maids to minister to the comfort of such of the dancers as should use it as a sitting-out place. None had so far made their appearance, the superior attractions of the main floor having exercised a great appeal; and for the past hour George had been alone with the maid and his thoughts. The maid, having asked George if he knew her cousin Frank, who had been in America nearly a year, and having received a reply in the negative, seemed to be disappointed in him, and to lose interest, and had not spoken for twenty minutes. George scanned the approaches to the balcony for a sight of Albert as the shipwrecked mariner scans the horizon for the passing sail. It was inevitable, he supposed, this waiting. It would be difficult for Maud to slip away even for a moment on such a night. "I say, laddie, would you mind getting me a lemonade?" George was gazing over the balcony when the voice spoke behind him, and the muscles of his back stiffened as he recognized its genial note. This was one of the things he had prepared himself for, but, now that it had happened, he felt a wave of stage-fright such as he had only once experienced before in his life--on the occasion when he had been young enough and inexperienced enough to take a curtain-call on a first night. Reggie Byng was friendly, and would not wilfully betray him; but Reggie was also a babbler, who could not be trusted to keep things to himself. It was necessary, he perceived, to take a strong line from the start, and convince Reggie that any likeness which the latter might suppose that he detected between his companion of that afternoon and the waiter of tonight existed only in his heated imagination. As George turned, Reggie's pleasant face, pink with healthful exercise and Lord Marshmoreton's finest Bollinger, lost most of its colour. His eyes and mouth opened wider. The fact is Reggie was shaken. All through the earlier part of the evening he had been sedulously priming himself with stimulants with a view to amassing enough nerve to propose to Alice Faraday: and, now that he had drawn her away from the throng to this secluded nook and was about to put his fortune to the test, a horrible fear swept over him that he had overdone it. He was having optical illusions. "Good God!" Reggie loosened his collar, and pulled himself together. "Would you mind taking a glass of lemonade to the lady in blue sitting on the settee over there by the statue," he said carefully. He brightened up a little. "Pretty good that! Not absolutely a test sentence, perhaps, like 'Truly rural' or 'The intricacies of the British Constitution'. But nevertheless no mean feat." "I say!" he continued, after a pause. "Sir?" "You haven't ever seen me before by any chance, if you know what I mean, have you?" "No, sir." "You haven't a brother, or anything of that shape or order, have you, no?" "No, sir. I have often wished I had. I ought to have spoken to father about it. Father could never deny me anything." Reggie blinked. His misgiving returned. Either his ears, like his eyes, were playing him tricks, or else this waiter-chappie was talking pure drivel. "What's that?" "Sir?" "What did you say?" "I said, 'No, sir, I have no brother'." "Didn't you say something else?" "No, sir." "What?" "No, sir." Reggie's worst suspicions were confirmed. "Good God!" he muttered. "Then I am!" Miss Faraday, when he joined her on the settee, wanted an explanation. "What were you talking to that man about, Mr. Byng? You seemed to be having a very interesting conversation." "I was asking him if he had a brother." Miss Faraday glanced quickly at him. She had had a feeling for some time during the evening that his manner had been strange. "A brother? What made you ask him that?" "He--I mean--that is to say--what I mean is, he looked the sort of chap who might have a brother. Lots of those fellows have!" Alice Faraday's face took on a motherly look. She was fonder of Reggie than that love-sick youth supposed, and by sheer accident he had stumbled on the right road to her consideration. Alice Faraday was one of those girls whose dream it is to be a ministering angel to some chosen man, to be a good influence to him and raise him to an appreciation of nobler things. Hitherto, Reggie's personality had seemed to her agreeable, but negative. A positive vice like over-indulgence in alcohol altered him completely. It gave him a significance. "I told him to get you a lemonade," said Reggie. "He seems to be taking his time about it. Hi!" George approached deferentially. "Sir?" "Where's that lemonade?" "Lemonade, sir?" "Didn't I ask you to bring this lady a glass of lemonade?" "I did not understand you to do so, sir." "But, Great Scott! What were we chatting about, then?" "You were telling me a diverting story about an Irishman who landed in New York looking for work, sir. You would like a glass of lemonade, sir? Very good, sir." Alice placed a hand gently on Reggie's arm. "Don't you think you had better lie down for a little and rest, Mr. Byng? I'm sure it would do you good." The solicitous note in her voice made Reggie quiver like a jelly. He had never known her speak like that before. For a moment he was inclined to lay bare his soul; but his nerve was broken. He did not want her to mistake the outpouring of a strong man's heart for the irresponsible ravings of a too hearty diner. It was one of Life's ironies. Here he was for the first time all keyed up to go right ahead, and he couldn't do it. "It's the heat of the room," said Alice. "Shall we go and sit outside on the terrace? Never mind about the lemonade. I'm not really thirsty." Reggie followed her like a lamb. The prospect of the cool night air was grateful. "That," murmured George, as he watched them depart, "ought to hold you for a while!" He perceived Albert hastening towards him. CHAPTER 13. Albert was in a hurry. He skimmed over the carpet like a water-beetle. "Quick!" he said. He cast a glance at the maid, George's co-worker. She was reading a novelette with her back turned. "Tell 'er you'll be back in five minutes," said Albert, jerking a thumb. "Unnecessary. She won't notice my absence. Ever since she discovered that I had never met her cousin Frank in America, I have meant nothing in her life." "Then come on." "Where?" "I'll show you." That it was not the nearest and most direct route which they took to the trysting-place George became aware after he had followed his young guide through doors and up stairs and down stairs and had at last come to a halt in a room to which the sound of the music penetrated but faintly. He recognized the room. He had been in it before. It was the same room where he and Billie Dore had listened to Keggs telling the story of Lord Leonard and his leap. That window there, he remembered now, opened on to the very balcony from which the historic Leonard had done his spectacular dive. That it should be the scene of this other secret meeting struck George as appropriate. The coincidence appealed to him. Albert vanished. George took a deep breath. Now that the moment had arrived for which he had waited so long he was aware of a return of that feeling of stage-fright which had come upon him when he heard Reggie Byng's voice. This sort of thing, it must be remembered, was not in George's usual line. His had been a quiet and uneventful life, and the only exciting thing which, in his recollection, had ever happened to him previous to the dramatic entry of Lady Maud into his taxi-cab that day in Piccadilly, had occurred at college nearly ten years before, when a festive room-mate--no doubt with the best motives--had placed a Mexican horned toad in his bed on the night of the Yale football game. A light footstep sounded outside, and the room whirled round George in a manner which, if it had happened to Reggie Byng, would have caused that injudicious drinker to abandon the habits of a lifetime. When the furniture had returned to its place and the rug had ceased to spin, Maud was standing before him. Nothing is harder to remember than a once-seen face. It had caused George a good deal of distress and inconvenience that, try as he might, he could not conjure up anything more than a vague vision of what the only girl in the world really looked like. He had carried away with him from their meeting in the cab only a confused recollection of eyes that shone and a mouth that curved in a smile; and the brief moment in which he was able to refresh his memory, when he found her in the lane with Reggie Byng and the broken-down car, had not been enough to add definiteness. The consequence was that Maud came upon him now with the stunning effect of beauty seen for the first time. He gasped. In that dazzling ball-dress, with the flush of dancing on her cheeks and the light of dancing in her eyes, she was so much more wonderful than any picture of her which memory had been able to produce for his inspection that it was as if he had never seen her before. Even her brother, Percy, a stern critic where his nearest and dearest were concerned, had admitted on meeting her in the drawing-room before dinner that that particular dress suited Maud. It was a shimmering dream-thing of rose-leaves and moon-beams. That, at least, was how it struck George; a dressmaker would have found a longer and less romantic description for it. But that does not matter. Whoever wishes for a cold and technical catalogue of the stuffs which went to make up the picture that deprived George of speech may consult the files of the Belpher Intelligencer and Farmers' Guide, and read the report of the editor's wife, who "does" the dresses for the Intelligencer under the pen-name of "Birdie Bright-Eye". As far as George was concerned, the thing was made of rose-leaves and moon-beams. George, as I say, was deprived of speech. That any girl could possibly look so beautiful was enough to paralyse his faculties; but that this ethereal being straight from Fairyland could have stooped to love him--him--an earthy brute who wore sock-suspenders and drank coffee for breakfast . . . that was what robbed George of the power to articulate. He could do nothing but look at her. From the Hills of Fairyland soft music came. Or, if we must be exact, Maud spoke. "I couldn't get away before!" Then she stopped short and darted to the door listening. "Was that somebody coming? I had to cut a dance with Mr. Plummer to get here, and I'm so afraid he may. . ." He had. A moment later it was only too evident that this was precisely what Mr. Plummer had done. There was a footstep on the stairs, a heavy footstep this time, and from outside the voice of the pursuer made itself heard. "Oh, there you are, Lady Maud! I was looking for you. This is our dance." George did not know who Mr. Plummer was. He did not want to know. His only thought regarding Mr. Plummer was a passionate realization of the superfluity of his existence. It is the presence on the globe of these Plummers that delays the coming of the Millennium. His stunned mind leaped into sudden activity. He must not be found here, that was certain. Waiters who ramble at large about a feudal castle and are discovered in conversation with the daughter of the house excite comment. And, conversely, daughters of the house who talk in secluded rooms with waiters also find explanations necessary. He must withdraw. He must withdraw quickly. And, as a gesture from Maud indicated, the withdrawal must be effected through the french window opening on the balcony. Estimating the distance that separated him from the approaching Plummer at three stairs--the voice had come from below--and a landing, the space of time allotted to him by a hustling Fate for disappearing was some four seconds. Inside two and half, the french window had opened and closed, and George was out under the stars, with the cool winds of the night playing on his heated forehead. He had now time for meditation. There are few situations which provide more scope for meditation than that of the man penned up on a small balcony a considerable distance from the ground, with his only avenue of retreat cut off behind him. So George meditated. First, he mused on Plummer. He thought some hard thoughts about Plummer. Then he brooded on the unkindness of a fortune which had granted him the opportunity of this meeting with Maud, only to snatch it away almost before it had begun. He wondered how long the late Lord Leonard had been permitted to talk on that occasion before he, too, had had to retire through these same windows. There was no doubt about one thing. Lovers who chose that room for their interviews seemed to have very little luck. It had not occurred to George at first that there could be any further disadvantage attached to his position other than the obvious drawbacks which had already come to his notice. He was now to perceive that he had been mistaken. A voice was speaking in the room he had left, a plainly audible voice, deep and throaty; and within a minute George had become aware that he was to suffer the additional discomfort of being obliged to listen to a fellow man--one could call Plummer that by stretching the facts a little--proposing marriage. The gruesomeness of the situation became intensified. Of all moments when a man--and justice compelled George to admit that Plummer was technically human--of all moments when a man may by all the laws of decency demand to be alone without an audience of his own sex, the chiefest is the moment when he is asking a girl to marry him. George's was a sensitive nature, and he writhed at the thought of playing the eavesdropper at such a time. He looked frantically about him for a means of escape. Plummer had now reached the stage of saying at great length that he was not worthy of Maud. He said it over and over, again in different ways. George was in hearty agreement with him, but he did not want to hear it. He wanted to get away. But how? Lord Leonard on a similar occasion had leaped. Some might argue therefore on the principle that what man has done, man can do, that George should have imitated him. But men differ. There was a man attached to a circus who used to dive off the roof of Madison Square Garden on to a sloping board, strike it with his chest, turn a couple of somersaults, reach the ground, bow six times and go off to lunch. That sort of thing is a gift. Some of us have it, some have not. George had not. Painful as it was to hear Plummer floundering through his proposal of marriage, instinct told him that it would be far more painful to hurl himself out into mid-air on the sporting chance of having his downward progress arrested by the branches of the big tree that had upheld Lord Leonard. No, there seemed nothing for it but to remain where he was. Inside the room Plummer was now saying how much the marriage would please his mother. "Psst!" George looked about him. It seemed to him that he had heard a voice. He listened. No. Except for the barking of a distant dog, the faint wailing of a waltz, the rustle of a roosting bird, and the sound of Plummer saying that if her refusal was due to anything she might have heard about that breach-of-promise case of his a couple of years ago he would like to state that he was more sinned against than sinning and that the girl had absolutely misunderstood him, all was still. "Psst! Hey, mister!" It was a voice. It came from above. Was it an angel's voice? Not altogether. It was Albert's. The boy was leaning out of a window some six feet higher up the castle wall. George, his eyes by now grown used to the darkness, perceived that the stripling gesticulated as one having some message to impart. Then, glancing to one side, he saw what looked like some kind of a rope swayed against the wall. He reached for it. The thing was not a rope: it was a knotted sheet. From above came Albert's hoarse whisper. "Look alive!" This was precisely what George wanted to do for at least another fifty years or so; and it seemed to him as he stood there in the starlight, gingerly fingering this flimsy linen thing, that if he were to suspend his hundred and eighty pounds of bone and sinew at the end of it over the black gulf outside the balcony he would look alive for about five seconds, and after that goodness only knew how he would look. He knew all about knotted sheets. He had read a hundred stories in which heroes, heroines, low comedy friends and even villains did all sorts of reckless things with their assistance. There was not much comfort to be derived from that. It was one thing to read about people doing silly things like that, quite another to do them yourself. He gave Albert's sheet a tentative shake. In all his experience he thought he had never come across anything so supremely unstable. (One calls it Albert's sheet for the sake of convenience. It was really Reggie Byng's sheet. And when Reggie got to his room in the small hours of the morning and found the thing a mass of knots he jumped to the conclusion-- being a simple-hearted young man--that his bosom friend Jack Ferris, who had come up from London to see Lord Belpher through the trying experience of a coming-of-age party, had done it as a practical joke, and went and poured a jug of water over Jack's bed. That is Life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely!) Albert was becoming impatient. He was in the position of a great general who thinks out some wonderful piece of strategy and can't get his army to carry it out. Many boys, seeing Plummer enter the room below and listening at the keyhole and realizing that George must have hidden somewhere and deducing that he must be out on the balcony, would have been baffled as to how to proceed. Not so Albert. To dash up to Reggie Byng's room and strip his sheet off the bed and tie it to the bed-post and fashion a series of knots in it and lower it out of the window took Albert about three minutes. His part in the business had been performed without a hitch. And now George, who had nothing in the world to do but the childish task of climbing up the sheet, was jeopardizing the success of the whole scheme by delay. Albert gave the sheet an irritable jerk. It was the worst thing he could have done. George had almost made up his mind to take a chance when the sheet was snatched from his grasp as if it had been some live thing deliberately eluding his clutch. The thought of what would have happened had this occurred when he was in mid-air caused him to break out in a cold perspiration. He retired a pace and perched himself on the rail of the balcony. "Psst!" said Albert. "It's no good saying, 'Psst!'" rejoined George in an annoyed undertone. "I could say 'Psst!' Any fool could say 'Psst!'" Albert, he considered, in leaning out of the window and saying "Psst!" was merely touching the fringe of the subject. It is probable that he would have remained seated on the balcony rail regarding the sheet with cold aversion, indefinitely, had not his hand been forced by the man Plummer. Plummer, during these last minutes, had shot his bolt. He had said everything that a man could say, much of it twice over; and now he was through. All was ended. The verdict was in. No wedding-bells for Plummer. "I think," said Plummer gloomily, and the words smote on George's ear like a knell, "I think I'd like a little air." George leaped from his rail like a hunted grasshopper. If Plummer was looking for air, it meant that he was going to come out on the balcony. There was only one thing to be done. It probably meant the abrupt conclusion of a promising career, but he could hesitate no longer. George grasped the sheet--it felt like a rope of cobwebs--and swung himself out. Maud looked out on to the balcony. Her heart, which had stood still when the rejected one opened the window and stepped forth to commune with the soothing stars, beat again. There was no one there, only emptiness and Plummer. "This," said Plummer sombrely, gazing over the rail into the darkness, "is the place where that fellow what's-his-name jumped off in the reign of thingummy, isn't it?" Maud understood now, and a thrill of the purest admiration for George's heroism swept over her. So rather than compromise her, he had done Leonard's leap! How splendid of him! If George, now sitting on Reggie Byng's bed taking a rueful census of the bits of skin remaining on his hands and knees after his climb, could have read her thoughts, he would have felt well rewarded for his abrasions. "I've a jolly good mind," said Plummer, "to do it myself!" He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "Well, anyway," he said recklessly, "I'll jolly well go downstairs and have a brandy-and-soda!" Albert finished untying the sheet from the bedpost, and stuffed it under the pillow. "And now," said Albert, "for a quiet smoke in the scullery." These massive minds require their moments of relaxation. CHAPTER 14. George's idea was to get home. Quick. There was no possible chance of a second meeting with Maud that night. They had met and had been whirled asunder. No use to struggle with Fate. Best to give in and hope that another time Fate would be kinder. What George wanted now was to be away from all the gay glitter and the fairylike tout ensemble and the galaxy of fair women and brave men, safe in his own easy-chair, where nothing could happen to him. A nice sense of duty would no doubt have taken him back to his post in order fully to earn the sovereign which had been paid to him for his services as temporary waiter; but the voice of Duty called to him in vain. If the British aristocracy desired refreshments let them get them for themselves--and like it! He was through. But if George had for the time being done with the British aristocracy, the British aristocracy had not done with him. Hardly had he reached the hall when he encountered the one member of the order whom he would most gladly have avoided. Lord Belpher was not in genial mood. Late hours always made his head ache, and he was not a dancing man; so that he was by now fully as weary of the fairylike tout ensemble as was George. But, being the centre and cause of the night's proceedings, he was compelled to be present to the finish. He was in the position of captains who must be last to leave their ships, and of boys who stand on burning decks whence all but they had fled. He had spent several hours shaking hands with total strangers and receiving with a frozen smile their felicitations on the attainment of his majority, and he could not have been called upon to meet a larger horde of relations than had surged round him that night if he had been a rabbit. The Belpher connection was wide, straggling over most of England; and first cousins, second cousins and even third and fourth cousins had debouched from practically every county on the map and marched upon the home of their ancestors. The effort of having to be civil to all of these had told upon Percy. Like the heroine of his sister Maud's favourite poem he was "aweary, aweary," and he wanted a drink. He regarded George's appearance as exceedingly opportune. "Get me a small bottle of champagne, and bring it to the library." "Yes, sir." The two words sound innocent enough, but, wishing as he did to efface himself and avoid publicity, they were the most unfortunate which George could have chosen. If he had merely bowed acquiescence and departed, it is probable that Lord Belpher would not have taken a second look at him. Percy was in no condition to subject everyone he met to a minute scrutiny. But, when you have been addressed for an entire lifetime as "your lordship", it startles you when a waiter calls you "Sir". Lord Belpher gave George a glance in which reproof and pain were nicely mingled emotions quickly supplanted by amazement. A gurgle escaped him. "Stop!" he cried as George turned away. Percy was rattled. The crisis found him in two minds. On the one hand, he would have been prepared to take oath that this man before him was the man who had knocked off his hat in Piccadilly. The likeness had struck him like a blow the moment he had taken a good look at the fellow. On the other hand, there is nothing which is more likely to lead one astray than a resemblance. He had never forgotten the horror and humiliation of the occasion, which had happened in his fourteenth year, when a motherly woman at Paddington Station had called him "dearie" and publicly embraced him, on the erroneous supposition that he was her nephew, Philip. He must proceed cautiously. A brawl with an innocent waiter, coming on the heels of that infernal episode with the policeman, would give people the impression that assailing the lower orders had become a hobby of his. "Sir?" said George politely. His brazen front shook Lord Belpher's confidence. "I haven't seen you before here, have I?" was all he could find to say. "No, sir," replied George smoothly. "I am only temporarily attached to the castle staff." "Where do you come from?" "America, sir." Lord Belpher started. "America!" "Yes, sir. I am in England on a vacation. My cousin, Albert, is page boy at the castle, and he told me there were a few vacancies for extra help tonight, so I applied and was given the job." Lord Belpher frowned perplexedly. It all sounded entirely plausible. And, what was satisfactory, the statement could be checked by application to Keggs, the butler. And yet there was a lingering doubt. However, there seemed nothing to be gained by continuing the conversation. "I see," he said at last. "Well, bring that champagne to the library as quick as you can." "Very good, sir." Lord Belpher remained where he stood, brooding. Reason told him he ought to be satisfied, but he was not satisfied. It would have been different had he not known that this fellow with whom Maud had become entangled was in the neighbourhood. And if that scoundrel had had the audacity to come and take a cottage at the castle gates, why not the audacity to invade the castle itself? The appearance of one of the footmen, on his way through the hall with a tray, gave him the opportunity for further investigation. "Send Keggs to me!" "Very good, your lordship." An interval and the butler arrived. Unlike Lord Belpher late hours were no hardship to Keggs. He was essentially a night-blooming flower. His brow was as free from wrinkles as his shirt-front. He bore himself with the conscious dignity of one who, while he would have freely admitted he did not actually own the castle, was nevertheless aware that he was one of its most conspicuous ornaments. "You wished to see me, your lordship?" "Yes. Keggs, there are a number of outside men helping here tonight, aren't there?" "Indubitably, your lordship. The unprecedented scale of the entertainment necessitated the engagement of a certain number of supernumeraries," replied Keggs with an easy fluency which Reggie Byng, now cooling his head on the lower terrace, would have bitterly envied. "In the circumstances, such an arrangement was inevitable." "You engaged all these men yourself?" "In a manner of speaking, your lordship, and for all practical purposes, yes. Mrs. Digby, the 'ouse-keeper conducted the actual negotiations in many cases, but the arrangement was in no instance considered complete until I had passed each applicant." "Do you know anything of an American who says he is the cousin of the page-boy?" "The boy Albert did introduce a nominee whom he stated to be 'is cousin 'ome from New York on a visit and anxious to oblige. I trust he 'as given no dissatisfaction, your lordship? He seemed a respectable young man." "No, no, not at all. I merely wished to know if you knew him. One can't be too careful." "No, indeed, your lordship." "That's all, then." "Thank you, your lordship." Lord Belpher was satisfied. He was also relieved. He felt that prudence and a steady head had kept him from making himself ridiculous. When George presently returned with the life-saving fluid, he thanked him and turned his thoughts to other things. But, if the young master was satisfied, Keggs was not. Upon Keggs a bright light had shone. There were few men, he flattered himself, who could more readily put two and two together and bring the sum to a correct answer. Keggs knew of the strange American gentleman who had taken up his abode at the cottage down by Platt's farm. His looks, his habits, and his motives for coming there had formed food for discussion throughout one meal in the servant's hall; a stranger whose abstention from brush and palette showed him to be no artist being an object of interest. And while the solution put forward by a romantic lady's-maid, a great reader of novelettes, that the young man had come there to cure himself of some unhappy passion by communing with nature, had been scoffed at by the company, Keggs had not been so sure that there might not be something in it. Later events had deepened his suspicion, which now, after this interview with Lord Belpher, had become certainty. The extreme fishiness of Albert's sudden production of a cousin from America was so manifest that only his preoccupation at the moment when he met the young man could have prevented him seeing it before. His knowledge of Albert told him that, if one so versed as that youth in the art of Swank had really possessed a cousin in America, he would long ago have been boring the servants' hall with fictions about the man's wealth and importance. For Albert not to lie about a thing, practically proved that thing non-existent. Such was the simple creed of Keggs. He accosted a passing fellow-servitor. "Seen young blighted Albert anywhere, Freddy?" It was in this shameful manner that that mastermind was habitually referred to below stairs. "Seen 'im going into the scullery not 'arf a minute ago," replied Freddy. "Thanks." "So long," said Freddy. "Be good!" returned Keggs, whose mode of speech among those of his own world differed substantially from that which he considered it became him to employ when conversing with the titled. The fall of great men is but too often due to the failure of their miserable bodies to give the necessary support to their great brains. There are some, for example, who say that Napoleon would have won the battle of Waterloo if he had not had dyspepsia. Not otherwise was it with Albert on that present occasion. The arrival of Keggs found him at a disadvantage. He had been imprudent enough, on leaving George, to endeavour to smoke a cigar, purloined from the box which stood hospitably open on a table in the hall. But for this, who knows with what cunning counter-attacks he might have foiled the butler's onslaught? As it was, the battle was a walk-over for the enemy. "I've been looking for you, young blighted Albert!" said Keggs coldly. Albert turned a green but defiant face to the foe. "Go and boil yer 'ead!" he advised. "Never mind about my 'ead. If I was to do my duty to you, I'd give you a clip side of your 'ead, that's what I'd do." "And then bury it in the woods," added Albert, wincing as the consequences of his rash act swept through his small form like some nauseous tidal wave. He shut his eyes. It upset him to see Keggs shimmering like that. A shimmering butler is an awful sight. Keggs laughed a hard laugh. "You and your cousins from America!" "What about my cousins from America?" "Yes, what about them? That's just what Lord Belpher and me have been asking ourselves." "I don't know wot you're talking about." "You soon will, young blighted Albert! Who sneaked that American fellow into the 'ouse to meet Lady Maud?" "I never!" "Think I didn't see through your little game? Why, I knew from the first." "Yes, you did! Then why did you let him into the place?" Keggs snorted triumphantly. "There! You admit it! It was that feller!" Too late Albert saw his false move--a move which in a normal state of health, he would have scorned to make. Just as Napoleon, minus a stomach-ache, would have scorned the blunder that sent his Cuirassiers plunging to destruction in the sunken road. "I don't know what you're torkin' about," he said weakly. "Well," said Keggs, "I haven't time to stand 'ere chatting with you. I must be going back to 'is lordship, to tell 'im of the 'orrid trick you played on him." A second spasm shook Albert to the core of his being. The double assault was too much for him. Betrayed by the body, the spirit yielded. "You wouldn't do that, Mr. Keggs!" There was a white flag in every syllable. "I would if I did my duty." "But you don't care about that," urged Albert ingratiatingly. "I'll have to think it over," mused Keggs. "I don't want to be 'ard on a young boy." He struggled silently with himself. "Ruinin' 'is prospecks!" An inspiration seemed to come to him. "All right, young blighted Albert," he said briskly. "I'll go against my better nature this once and chance it. And now, young feller me lad, you just 'and over that ticket of yours! You know what I'm alloodin' to! That ticket you 'ad at the sweep, the one with 'Mr. X' on it." Albert's indomitable spirit triumphed for a moment over his stricken body. "That's likely, ain't it!" Keggs sighed--the sigh of a good man who has done his best to help a fellow-being and has been baffled by the other's perversity. "Just as you please," he said sorrowfully. "But I did 'ope I shouldn't 'ave to go to 'is lordship and tell 'im 'ow you've deceived him." Albert capitulated. "'Ere yer are!" A piece of paper changed hands. "It's men like you wot lead to 'arf the crime in the country!" "Much obliged, me lad." "You'd walk a mile in the snow, you would," continued Albert pursuing his train of thought, "to rob a starving beggar of a ha'penny." "Who's robbing anyone? Don't you talk so quick, young man. I'm doing the right thing by you. You can 'ave my ticket, marked 'Reggie Byng'. It's a fair exchange, and no one the worse!" "Fat lot of good that is!" "That's as it may be. Anyhow, there it is." Keggs prepared to withdraw. "You're too young to 'ave all that money, Albert. You wouldn't know what to do with it. It wouldn't make you 'appy. There's other things in the world besides winning sweepstakes. And, properly speaking, you ought never to have been allowed to draw at all, being so young." Albert groaned hollowly. "When you've finished torkin', I wish you'd kindly have the goodness to leave me alone. I'm not meself." "That," said Keggs cordially, "is a bit of luck for you, my boy. Accept my 'eartiest felicitations!" Defeat is the test of the great man. Your true general is not he who rides to triumph on the tide of an easy victory, but the one who, when crushed to earth, can bend himself to the task of planning methods of rising again. Such a one was Albert, the page-boy. Observe Albert in his attic bedroom scarcely more than an hour later. His body has practically ceased to trouble him, and his soaring spirit has come into its own again. With the exception of a now very occasional spasm, his physical anguish has passed, and he is thinking, thinking hard. On the chest of drawers is a grubby envelope, addressed in an ill-formed hand to: R. Byng, Esq. On a sheet of paper, soon to be placed in the envelope, are written in the same hand these words: "Do not dispare! Remember! Fante hart never won fair lady. I shall watch your futur progres with considurable interest. Your Well-Wisher." The last sentence is not original. Albert's Sunday-school teacher said it to Albert on the occasion of his taking up his duties at the castle, and it stuck in his memory. Fortunately, for it expressed exactly what Albert wished to say. From now on Reggie Byng's progress with Lady Maud Marsh was to be the thing nearest to Albert's heart. And George meanwhile? Little knowing how Fate has changed in a flash an ally into an opponent he is standing at the edge of the shrubbery near the castle gate. The night is very beautiful; the barked spots on his hands and knees are hurting much less now; and he is full of long, sweet thoughts. He has just discovered the extraordinary resemblance, which had not struck him as he was climbing up the knotted sheet, between his own position and that of the hero of Tennyson's Maud, a poem to which he has always been particularly addicted--and never more so than during the days since he learned the name of the only possible girl. When he has not been playing golf, Tennyson's Maud has been his constant companion. "Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls Come hither, the dances are done, In glass of satin and glimmer of pearls. Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls To the flowers, and be their sun." The music from the ballroom flows out to him through the motionless air. The smell of sweet earth and growing things is everywhere. "Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, hath flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown." He draws a deep breath, misled young man. The night is very beautiful. It is near to the dawn now and in the bushes live things are beginning to stir and whisper. "Maud!" Surely she can hear him? "Maud!" The silver stars looked down dispassionately. This sort of thing had no novelty for them. CHAPTER 15. Lord Belpher's twenty-first birthday dawned brightly, heralded in by much twittering of sparrows in the ivy outside his bedroom. These Percy did not hear, for he was sound asleep and had had a late night. The first sound that was able to penetrate his heavy slumber and rouse him to a realization that his birthday had arrived was the piercing cry of Reggie Byng on his way to the bath-room across the corridor. It was Reggie's disturbing custom to urge himself on to a cold bath with encouraging yells; and the noise of this performance, followed by violent splashing and a series of sharp howls as the sponge played upon the Byng spine, made sleep an impossibility within a radius of many yards. Percy sat up in bed, and cursed Reggie silently. He discovered that he had a headache. Presently the door flew open, and the vocalist entered in person, clad in a pink bathrobe and very tousled and rosy from the tub. "Many happy returns of the day, Boots, old thing!" Reggie burst rollickingly into song. "I'm twenty-one today! Twenty-one today! I've got the key of the door! Never been twenty-one before! And father says I can do what I like! So shout Hip-hip-hooray! I'm a jolly good fellow, Twenty-one today." Lord Belpher scowled morosely. "I wish you wouldn't make that infernal noise!" "What infernal noise?" "That singing!" "My God! This man has wounded me!" said Reggie. "I've a headache." "I thought you would have, laddie, when I saw you getting away with the liquid last night. An X-ray photograph of your liver would show something that looked like a crumpled oak-leaf studded with hob-nails. You ought to take more exercise, dear heart. Except for sloshing that policeman, you haven't done anything athletic for years." "I wish you wouldn't harp on that affair!" Reggie sat down on the bed. "Between ourselves, old man," he said confidentially, "I also--I myself--Reginald Byng, in person--was perhaps a shade polluted during the evening. I give you my honest word that just after dinner I saw three versions of your uncle, the bishop, standing in a row side by side. I tell you, laddie, that for a moment I thought I had strayed into a Bishop's Beano at Exeter Hall or the Athenaeum or wherever it is those chappies collect in gangs. Then the three bishops sort of congealed into one bishop, a trifle blurred about the outlines, and I felt relieved. But what convinced me that I had emptied a flagon or so too many was a rather rummy thing that occurred later on. Have you ever happened, during one of these feasts of reason and flows of soul, when you were bubbling over with joie-de-vivre--have you ever happened to see things? What I mean to say is, I had a deuced odd experience last night. I could have sworn that one of the waiter-chappies was that fellow who knocked off your hat in Piccadilly." Lord Belpher, who had sunk back on to the pillows at Reggie's entrance and had been listening to his talk with only intermittent attention, shot up in bed. "What!" "Absolutely! My mistake, of course, but there it was. The fellow might have been his double." "But you've never seen the man." "Oh yes, I have. I forgot to tell you. I met him on the links yesterday. I'd gone out there alone, rather expecting to have a round with the pro., but, finding this lad there, I suggested that we might go round together. We did eighteen holes, and he licked the boots off me. Very hot stuff he was. And after the game he took me off to his cottage and gave me a drink. He lives at the cottage next door to Platt's farm, so, you see, it was the identical chappie. We got extremely matey. Like brothers. Absolutely! So you can understand what a shock it gave me when I found what I took to be the same man serving bracers to the multitude the same evening. One of those nasty jars that cause a fellow's head to swim a bit, don't you know, and make him lose confidence in himself." Lord Belpher did not reply. His brain was whirling. So he had been right after all! "You know," pursued Reggie seriously, "I think you are making the bloomer of a lifetime over this hat-swatting chappie. You've misjudged him. He's a first-rate sort. Take it from me! Nobody could have got out of the bunker at the fifteenth hole better than he did. If you'll take my advice, you'll conciliate the feller. A really first-class golfer is what you need in the family. Besides, even leaving out of the question the fact that he can do things with a niblick that I didn't think anybody except the pro. could do, he's a corking good sort. A stout fellow in every respect. I took to the chappie. He's all right. Grab him, Boots, before he gets away. That's my tip to you. You'll never regret it! From first to last this lad didn't foozle a single drive, and his approach-putting has to be seen to be believed. Well, got to dress, I suppose. Mustn't waste life's springtime sitting here talking to you. Toodle-oo, laddie! We shall meet anon!" Lord Belpher leaped from his bed. He was feeling worse than ever now, and a glance into the mirror told him that he looked rather worse than he felt. Late nights and insufficient sleep, added to the need of a shave, always made him look like something that should have been swept up and taken away to the ash-bin. And as for his physical condition, talking to Reggie Byng never tended to make you feel better when you had a headache. Reggie's manner was not soothing, and on this particular morning his choice of a topic had been unusually irritating. Lord Belpher told himself that he could not understand Reggie. He had never been able to make his mind quite clear as to the exact relations between the latter and his sister Maud, but he had always been under the impression that, if they were not actually engaged, they were on the verge of becoming so; and it was maddening to have to listen to Reggie advocating the claims of a rival as if he had no personal interest in the affair at all. Percy felt for his complaisant friend something of the annoyance which a householder feels for the watchdog whom he finds fraternizing with the burglar. Why, Reggie, more than anyone else, ought to be foaming with rage at the insolence of this American fellow in coming down to Belpher and planting himself at the castle gates. Instead of which, on his own showing, he appeared to have adopted an attitude towards him which would have excited remark if adopted by David towards Jonathan. He seemed to spend all his spare time frolicking with the man on the golf-links and hobnobbing with him in his house. Lord Belpher was thoroughly upset. It was impossible to prove it or to do anything about it now, but he was convinced that the fellow had wormed his way into the castle in the guise of a waiter. He had probably met Maud and plotted further meetings with her. This thing was becoming unendurable. One thing was certain. The family honour was in his hands. Anything that was to be done to keep Maud away from the intruder must be done by himself. Reggie was hopeless: he was capable, as far as Percy could see, of escorting Maud to the fellow's door in his own car and leaving her on the threshold with his blessing. As for Lord Marshmoreton, roses and the family history took up so much of his time that he could not be counted on for anything but moral support. He, Percy, must do the active work. He had just come to this decision, when, approaching the window and gazing down into the grounds, he perceived his sister Maud walking rapidly--and, so it seemed to him, with a furtive air--down the east drive. And it was to the east that Platt's farm and the cottage next door to it lay. At the moment of this discovery, Percy was in a costume ill adapted for the taking of country walks. Reggie's remarks about his liver had struck home, and it had been his intention, by way of a corrective to his headache and a general feeling of swollen ill-health, to do a little work before his bath with a pair of Indian clubs. He had arrayed himself for this purpose in an old sweater, a pair of grey flannel trousers, and patent leather evening shoes. It was not the garb he would have chosen himself for a ramble, but time was flying: even to put on a pair of boots is a matter of minutes: and in another moment or two Maud would be out of sight. Percy ran downstairs, snatched up a soft shooting-hat, which proved, too late, to belong to a person with a head two sizes smaller than his own; and raced out into the grounds. He was just in time to see Maud disappearing round the corner of the drive. Lord Belpher had never belonged to that virile class of the community which considers running a pleasure and a pastime. At Oxford, on those occasions when the members of his college had turned out on raw afternoons to trot along the river-bank encouraging the college eight with yelling and the swinging of police-rattles, Percy had always stayed prudently in his rooms with tea and buttered toast, thereby avoiding who knows what colds and coughs. When he ran, he ran reluctantly and with a definite object in view, such as the catching of a train. He was consequently not in the best of condition, and the sharp sprint which was imperative at this juncture if he was to keep his sister in view left him spent and panting. But he had the reward of reaching the gates of the drive not many seconds after Maud, and of seeing her walking--more slowly now--down the road that led to Platt's. This confirmation of his suspicions enabled him momentarily to forget the blister which was forming on the heel of his left foot. He set out after her at a good pace. The road, after the habit of country roads, wound and twisted. The quarry was frequently out of sight. And Percy's anxiety was such that, every time Maud vanished, he broke into a gallop. Another hundred yards, and the blister no longer consented to be ignored. It cried for attention like a little child, and was rapidly insinuating itself into a position in the scheme of things where it threatened to become the centre of the world. By the time the third bend in the road was reached, it seemed to Percy that this blister had become the one great Fact in an unreal nightmare-like universe. He hobbled painfully: and when he stopped suddenly and darted back into the shelter of the hedge his foot seemed aflame. The only reason why the blister on his left heel did not at this juncture attract his entire attention was that he had become aware that there was another of equal proportions forming on his right heel. Percy had stopped and sought cover in the hedge because, as he rounded the bend in the road, he perceived, before he had time to check his gallop, that Maud had also stopped. She was standing in the middle of the road, looking over her shoulder, not ten yards away. Had she seen him? It was a point that time alone could solve. No! She walked on again. She had not seen him. Lord Belpher, by means of a notable triumph of mind over matter, forgot the blisters and hurried after her. They had now reached that point in the road where three choices offer themselves to the wayfarer. By going straight on he may win through to the village of Moresby-in-the-Vale, a charming little place with a Norman church; by turning to the left he may visit the equally seductive hamlet of Little Weeting; by turning to the right off the main road and going down a leafy lane he may find himself at the door of Platt's farm. When Maud, reaching the cross-roads, suddenly swung down the one to the left, Lord Belpher was for the moment completely baffled. Reason reasserted its way the next minute, telling him that this was but a ruse. Whether or no she had caught sight of him, there was no doubt that Maud intended to shake off any possible pursuit by taking this speciously innocent turning and making a detour. She could have no possible motive in going to Little Weeting. He had never been to Little Weeting in his life, and there was no reason to suppose that Maud had either. The sign-post informed him--a statement strenuously denied by the twin-blisters--that the distance to Little Weeting was one and a half miles. Lord Belpher's view of it was that it was nearer fifty. He dragged himself along wearily. It was simpler now to keep Maud in sight, for the road ran straight: but, there being a catch in everything in this world, the process was also messier. In order to avoid being seen, it was necessary for Percy to leave the road and tramp along in the deep ditch which ran parallel to it. There is nothing half-hearted about these ditches which accompany English country roads. They know they are intended to be ditches, not mere furrows, and they behave as such. The one that sheltered Lord Belpher was so deep that only his head and neck protruded above the level of the road, and so dirty that a bare twenty yards of travel was sufficient to coat him with mud. Rain, once fallen, is reluctant to leave the English ditch. It nestles inside it for weeks, forming a rich, oatmeal-like substance which has to be stirred to be believed. Percy stirred it. He churned it. He ploughed and sloshed through it. The mud stuck to him like a brother. Nevertheless, being a determined young man, he did not give in. Once he lost a shoe, but a little searching recovered that. On another occasion, a passing dog, seeing things going on in the ditch which in his opinion should not have been going on--he was a high-strung dog, unused to coming upon heads moving along the road without bodies attached--accompanied Percy for over a quarter of a mile, causing him exquisite discomfort by making sudden runs at his face. A well-aimed stone settled this little misunderstanding, and Percy proceeded on his journey alone. He had Maud well in view when, to his surprise, she left the road and turned into the gate of a house which stood not far from the church. Lord Belpher regained the road, and remained there, a puzzled man. A dreadful thought came to him that he might have had all this trouble and anguish for no reason. This house bore the unmistakable stamp of a vicarage. Maud could have no reason that was not innocent for going there. Had he gone through all this, merely to see his sister paying a visit to a clergyman? Too late it occurred to him that she might quite easily be on visiting terms with the clergy of Little Weeting. He had forgotten that he had been away at Oxford for many weeks, a period of time in which Maud, finding life in the country weigh upon her, might easily have interested herself charitably in the life of this village. He paused irresolutely. He was baffled. Maud, meanwhile, had rung the bell. Ever since, looking over her shoulder, she had perceived her brother Percy dodging about in the background, her active young mind had been busying itself with schemes for throwing him off the trail. She must see George that morning. She could not wait another day before establishing communication between herself and Geoffrey. But it was not till she reached Little Weeting that there occurred to her any plan that promised success. A trim maid opened the door. "Is the vicar in?" "No, miss. He went out half an hour back." Maud was as baffled for the moment as her brother Percy, now leaning against the vicarage wall in a state of advanced exhaustion. "Oh, dear!" she said. The maid was sympathetic. "Mr. Ferguson, the curate, miss, he's here, if he would do." Maud brightened. "He would do splendidly. Will you ask him if I can see him for a moment?" "Very well, miss. What name, please?" "He won't know my name. Will you please tell him that a lady wishes to see him?" "Yes, miss. Won't you step in?" The front door closed behind Maud. She followed the maid into the drawing-room. Presently a young small curate entered. He had a willing, benevolent face. He looked alert and helpful. "You wished to see me?" "I am so sorry to trouble you," said Maud, rocking the young man in his tracks with a smile of dazzling brilliancy--("No trouble, I assure you," said the curate dizzily)--"but there is a man following me!" The curate clicked his tongue indignantly. "A rough sort of a tramp kind of man. He has been following me for miles, and I'm frightened." "Brute!" "I think he's outside now. I can't think what he wants. Would you--would you mind being kind enough to go and send him away?" The eyes that had settled George's fate for all eternity flashed upon the curate, who blinked. He squared his shoulders and drew himself up. He was perfectly willing to die for her. "If you will wait here," he said, "I will go and send him about his business. It is disgraceful that the public highways should be rendered unsafe in this manner." "Thank you ever so much," said Maud gratefully. "I can't help thinking the poor fellow may be a little crazy. It seems so odd of him to follow me all that way. Walking in the ditch too!" "Walking in the ditch!" "Yes. He walked most of the way in the ditch at the side of the road. He seemed to prefer it. I can't think why." Lord Belpher, leaning against the wall and trying to decide whether his right or left foot hurt him the more excruciatingly, became aware that a curate was standing before him, regarding him through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez with a disapproving and hostile expression. Lord Belpher returned his gaze. Neither was favourably impressed by the other. Percy thought he had seen nicer-looking curates, and the curate thought he had seen more prepossessing tramps. "Come, come!" said the curate. "This won't do, my man!" A few hours earlier Lord Belpher had been startled when addressed by George as "sir". To be called "my man" took his breath away completely. The gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is, as the poet indicates, vouchsafed to few men. Lord Belpher, not being one of these fortunates, had not the slightest conception how intensely revolting his personal appearance was at that moment. The red-rimmed eyes, the growth of stubble on the cheeks, and the thick coating of mud which had resulted from his rambles in the ditch combined to render him a horrifying object. "How dare you follow that young lady? I've a good mind to give you in charge!" Percy was outraged. "I'm her brother!" He was about to substantiate the statement by giving his name, but stopped himself. He had had enough of letting his name come out on occasions like the present. When the policeman had arrested him in the Haymarket, his first act had been to thunder his identity at the man: and the policeman, without saying in so many words that he disbelieved him, had hinted scepticism by replying that he himself was the king of Brixton. "I'm her brother!" he repeated thickly. The curate's disapproval deepened. In a sense, we are all brothers; but that did not prevent him from considering that this mud-stained derelict had made an impudent and abominable mis-statement of fact. Not unnaturally he came to the conclusion that he had to do with a victim of the Demon Rum. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said severely. "Sad piece of human wreckage as you are, you speak like an educated man. Have you no self-respect? Do you never search your heart and shudder at the horrible degradation which you have brought on yourself by sheer weakness of will?" He raised his voice. The subject of Temperance was one very near to the curate's heart. The vicar himself had complimented him only yesterday on the good his sermons against the drink evil were doing in the village, and the landlord of the Three Pigeons down the road had on several occasions spoken bitter things about blighters who came taking the living away from honest folks. "It is easy enough to stop if you will but use a little resolution. You say to yourself, 'Just one won't hurt me!' Perhaps not. But can you be content with just one? Ah! No, my man, there is no middle way for such as you. It must be all or nothing. Stop it now--now, while you still retain some semblance of humanity. Soon it will be too late! Kill that craving! Stifle it! Strangle it! Make up your mind now--now, that not another drop of the accursed stuff shall pass your lips... ." The curate paused. He perceived that enthusiasm was leading him away from the main issue. "A little perseverance," he concluded rapidly, "and you will soon find that cocoa gives you exactly the same pleasure. And now will you please be getting along. You have frightened the young lady, and she cannot continue her walk unless I assure her that you have gone away." Fatigue, pain and the annoyance of having to listen to this man's well-meant but ill-judged utterances had combined to induce in Percy a condition bordering on hysteria. He stamped his foot, and uttered a howl as the blister warned him with a sharp twinge that this sort of behaviour could not be permitted. "Stop talking!" he bellowed. "Stop talking like an idiot! I'm going to stay here till that girl comes out, if have to wait all day!" The curate regarded Percy thoughtfully. Percy was no Hercules: but then, neither was the curate. And in any case, though no Hercules, Percy was undeniably an ugly-looking brute. Strategy, rather than force, seemed to the curate to be indicated. He paused a while, as one who weighs pros and cons, then spoke briskly, with the air of the man who has decided to yield a point with a good grace. "Dear, dear!" he said. "That won't do! You say you are this young lady's brother?" "Yes, I do!" "Then perhaps you had better come with me into the house and we will speak to her." "All right." "Follow me." Percy followed him. Down the trim gravel walk they passed, and up the neat stone steps. Maud, peeping through the curtains, thought herself the victim of a monstrous betrayal or equally monstrous blunder. But she did not know the Rev. Cyril Ferguson. No general, adroitly leading the enemy on by strategic retreat, ever had a situation more thoroughly in hand. Passing with his companion through the open door, he crossed the hall to another door, discreetly closed. "Wait in here," he said. Lord Belpher moved unsuspectingly forward. A hand pressed sharply against the small of his back. Behind him a door slammed and a key clicked. He was trapped. Groping in Egyptian darkness, his hands met a coat, then a hat, then an umbrella. Then he stumbled over a golf-club and fell against a wall. It was too dark to see anything, but his sense of touch told him all he needed to know. He had been added to the vicar's collection of odds and ends in the closet reserved for that purpose. He groped his way to the door and kicked it. He did not repeat the performance. His feet were in no shape for kicking things. Percy's gallant soul abandoned the struggle. With a feeble oath, he sat down on a box containing croquet implements, and gave himself up to thought. "You'll be quite safe now," the curate was saying in the adjoining room, not without a touch of complacent self-approval such as becomes the victor in a battle of wits. "I have locked him in the cupboard. He will be quite happy there." An incorrect statement this. "You may now continue your walk in perfect safety." "Thank you ever so much," said Maud. "But I do hope he won't be violent when you let him out." "I shall not let him out," replied the curate, who, though brave, was not rash. "I shall depute the task to a worthy fellow named Willis, in whom I shall have every confidence. He--he is, in fact, our local blacksmith!" And so it came about that when, after a vigil that seemed to last for a lifetime, Percy heard the key turn in the lock and burst forth seeking whom he might devour, he experienced an almost instant quieting of his excited nervous system. Confronting him was a vast man whose muscles, like those of that other and more celebrated village blacksmith, were plainly as strong as iron bands. This man eyed Percy with a chilly eye. "Well," he said. "What's troublin' you?" Percy gulped. The man's mere appearance was a sedative. "Er--nothing!" he replied. "Nothing!" "There better hadn't be!" said the man darkly. "Mr. Ferguson give me this to give to you. Take it!" Percy took it. It was a shilling. "And this." The second gift was a small paper pamphlet. It was entitled "Now's the Time!" and seemed to be a story of some kind. At any rate, Percy's eyes, before they began to swim in a manner that prevented steady reading, caught the words "Job Roberts had always been a hard-drinking man, but one day, as he was coming out of the bar-parlour . . ." He was about to hurl it from him, when he met the other's eye and desisted. Rarely had Lord Belpher encountered a man with a more speaking eye. "And now you get along," said the man. "You pop off. And I'm going to watch you do it, too. And, if I find you sneakin' off to the Three Pigeons . . ." His pause was more eloquent than his speech and nearly as eloquent as his eye. Lord Belpher tucked the tract into his sweater, pocketed the shilling, and left the house. For nearly a mile down the well-remembered highway he was aware of a Presence in his rear, but he continued on his way without a glance behind. "Like one that on a lonely road Doth walk in fear and dread; And, having once looked back, walks on And turns no more his head! Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread!" Maud made her way across the fields to the cottage down by Platt's. Her heart was as light as the breeze that ruffled the green hedges. Gaily she tripped towards the cottage door. Her hand was just raised to knock, when from within came the sound of a well-known voice. She had reached her goal, but her father had anticipated her. Lord Marshmoreton had selected the same moment as herself for paying a call upon George Bevan. Maud tiptoed away, and hurried back to the castle. Never before had she so clearly realized what a handicap an adhesive family can be to a young girl. CHAPTER 16. At the moment of Lord Marshmoreton's arrival, George was reading a letter from Billie Dore, which had come by that morning's post. It dealt mainly with the vicissitudes experienced by Miss Dore's friend, Miss Sinclair, in her relations with the man Spenser Gray. Spenser Gray, it seemed, had been behaving oddly. Ardent towards Miss Sinclair almost to an embarrassing point in the early stages of their acquaintance, he had suddenly cooled; at a recent lunch had behaved with a strange aloofness; and now, at this writing, had vanished altogether, leaving nothing behind him but an abrupt note to the effect that he had been compelled to go abroad and that, much as it was to be regretted, he and she would probably never meet again. "And if," wrote Miss Dore, justifiably annoyed, "after saying all those things to the poor kid and telling her she was the only thing in sight, he thinks he can just slide off with a 'Good-bye! Good luck! and God bless you!' he's got another guess coming. And that's not all. He hasn't gone abroad! I saw him in Piccadilly this afternoon. He saw me, too, and what do you think he did? Ducked down a side-street, if you please. He must have run like a rabbit, at that, because, when I got there, he was nowhere to be seen. I tell you, George, there's something funny about all this." Having been made once or twice before the confidant of the tempestuous romances of Billie's friends, which always seemed to go wrong somewhere in the middle and to die a natural death before arriving at any definite point, George was not particularly interested, except in so far as the letter afforded rather comforting evidence that he was not the only person in the world who was having trouble of the kind. He skimmed through the rest of it, and had just finished when there was a sharp rap at the front door. "Come in!" called George. There entered a sturdy little man of middle age whom at first sight George could not place. And yet he had the impression that he had seen him before. Then he recognized him as the gardener to whom he had given the note for Maud that day at the castle. The alteration in the man's costume was what had momentarily baffled George. When they had met in the rose-garden, the other had been arrayed in untidy gardening clothes. Now, presumably in his Sunday suit, it was amusing to observe how almost dapper he had become. Really, you might have passed him in the lane and taken him for some neighbouring squire. George's heart raced. Your lover is ever optimistic, and he could conceive of no errand that could have brought this man to his cottage unless he was charged with the delivery of a note from Maud. He spared a moment from his happiness to congratulate himself on having picked such an admirable go-between. Here evidently, was one of those trusty old retainers you read about, faithful, willing, discreet, ready to do anything for "the little missy" (bless her heart!). Probably he had danced Maud on his knee in her infancy, and with a dog-like affection had watched her at her childish sports. George beamed at the honest fellow, and felt in his pocket to make sure that a suitable tip lay safely therein. "Good morning," he said. "Good morning," replied the man. A purist might have said he spoke gruffly and without geniality. But that is the beauty of these old retainers. They make a point of deliberately trying to deceive strangers as to the goldenness of their hearts by adopting a forbidding manner. And "Good morning!" Not "Good morning, sir!" Sturdy independence, you observe, as befits a free man. George closed the door carefully. He glanced into the kitchen. Mrs. Platt was not there. All was well. "You have brought a note from Lady Maud?" The honest fellow's rather dour expression seemed to grow a shade bleaker. "If you are alluding to Lady Maud Marsh, my daughter," he replied frostily, "I have not!" For the past few days George had been no stranger to shocks, and had indeed come almost to regard them as part of the normal everyday life; but this latest one had a stumbling effect. "I beg your pardon?" he said. "So you ought to," replied the earl. George swallowed once or twice to relieve a curious dryness of the mouth. "Are you Lord Marshmoreton?" "I am." "Good Lord!" "You seem surprised." "It's nothing!" muttered George. "At least, you--I mean to say . . . It's only that there's a curious resemblance between you and one of your gardeners at the castle. I--I daresay you have noticed it yourself." "My hobby is gardening." Light broke upon George. "Then was it really you--?" "It was!" George sat down. "This opens up a new line of thought!" he said. Lord Marshmoreton remained standing. He shook his head sternly. "It won't do, Mr. . . . I have never heard your name." "Bevan," replied George, rather relieved at being able to remember it in the midst of his mental turmoil. "It won't do, Mr. Bevan. It must stop. I allude to this absurd entanglement between yourself and my daughter. It must stop at once." It seemed to George that such an entanglement could hardly be said to have begun, but he did not say so. Lord Marshmoreton resumed his remarks. Lady Caroline had sent him to the cottage to be stern, and his firm resolve to be stern lent his style of speech something of the measured solemnity and careful phrasing of his occasional orations in the House of Lords. "I have no wish to be unduly hard upon the indiscretions of Youth. Youth is the period of Romance, when the heart rules the head. I myself was once a young man." "Well, you're practically that now," said George. "Eh?" cried Lord Marshmoreton, forgetting the thread of his discourse in the shock of pleased surprise. "You don't look a day over forty." "Oh, come, come, my boy! . . . I mean, Mr. Bevan." "You don't honestly." "I'm forty-eight." "The Prime of Life." "And you don't think I look it?" "You certainly don't." "Well, well, well! By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I came without my pouch." "Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village." "The same I smoke myself." "Quite a coincidence." "Distinctly." "Match?" "Thank you, I have one." George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast. "What was I saying?" said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortable cloud. "Oh, yes." He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch of embarrassment. "Yes, yes, to be sure!" There was an awkward silence. "You must see for yourself," said the earl, "how impossible it is." George shook his head. "I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I'm bound to say I can't see that." Lord Marshmoreton recalled some of the things his sister had told him to say. "For one thing, what do we know of you? You are a perfect stranger." "Well, we're all getting acquainted pretty quick, don't you think? I met your son in Piccadilly and had a long talk with him, and now you are paying me a neighbourly visit." "This was not intended to be a social call." "But it has become one." "And then, that is one point I wish to make, you know. Ours is an old family, I would like to remind you that there were Marshmoretons in Belpher before the War of the Roses." "There were Bevans in Brooklyn before the B.R.T." "I beg your pardon?" "I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way. You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want to find them." "I have never heard of Brooklyn." "You've heard of New York?" "Certainly." "New York's one of the outlying suburbs." Lord Marshmoreton relit his pipe. He had a feeling that they were wandering from the point. "It is quite impossible." "I can't see it." "Maud is so young." "Your daughter could be nothing else." "Too young to know her own mind," pursued Lord Marshmoreton, resolutely crushing down a flutter of pleasure. There was no doubt that this singularly agreeable man was making things very difficult for him. It was disarming to discover that he was really capital company--the best, indeed, that the earl could remember to have discovered in the more recent period of his rather lonely life. "At present, of course, she fancies that she is very much in love with you . . . It is absurd!" "You needn't tell me that," said George. Really, it was only the fact that people seemed to go out of their way to call at his cottage and tell him that Maud loved him that kept him from feeling his cause perfectly hopeless. "It's incredible. It's a miracle." "You are a romantic young man, and you no doubt for the moment suppose that you are in love with her." "No!" George was not going to allow a remark like that to pass unchallenged. "You are wrong there. As far as I am concerned, there is no question of its being momentary or supposititious or anything of that kind. I am in love with your daughter. I was from the first moment I saw her. I always shall be. She is the only girl in the world!" "Stuff and nonsense!" "Not at all. Absolute, cold fact." "You have known her so little time." "Long enough." Lord Marshmoreton sighed. "You are upsetting things terribly." "Things are upsetting me terribly." "You are causing a great deal of trouble and annoyance." "So did Romeo." "Eh?" "I said--So did Romeo." "I don't know anything about Romeo." "As far as love is concerned, I begin where he left off." "I wish I could persuade you to be sensible." "That's just what I think I am." "I wish I could get you to see my point of view." "I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes up such a lot of the foreground." There was a pause. "Then I am afraid," said Lord Marshmoreton, "that we must leave matters as they stand." "Until they can be altered for the better." "We will say no more about it now." "Very well." "But I must ask you to understand clearly that I shall have to do everything in my power to stop what I look on as an unfortunate entanglement." "I understand," "Very well." Lord Marshmoreton coughed. George looked at him with some surprise. He had supposed the interview to be at an end, but the other made no move to go. There seemed to be something on the earl's mind. "There is--ah--just one other thing," said Lord Marshmoreton. He coughed again. He felt embarrassed. "Just--just one other thing," he repeated. The reason for Lord Marshmoreton's visit to George had been twofold. In the first place, Lady Caroline had told him to go. That would have been reason enough. But what made the visit imperative was an unfortunate accident of which he had only that morning been made aware. It will be remembered that Billie Dore had told George that the gardener with whom she had become so friendly had taken her name and address with a view later on to send her some of his roses. The scrap of paper on which this information had been written was now lost. Lord Marshmoreton had been hunting for it since breakfast without avail. Billie Dore had made a decided impression upon Lord Marshmoreton. She belonged to a type which he had never before encountered, and it was one which he had found more than agreeable. Her knowledge of roses and the proper feeling which she manifested towards rose-growing as a life-work consolidated the earl's liking for her. Never, in his memory, had he come across so sensible and charming a girl; and he had looked forward with a singular intensity to meeting her again. And now some too zealous housemaid, tidying up after the irritating manner of her species, had destroyed the only clue to her identity. It was not for some time after this discovery that hope dawned again for Lord Marshmoreton. Only after he had given up the search for the missing paper as fruitless did he recall that it was in George's company that Billie had first come into his life. Between her, then, and himself George was the only link. It was primarily for the purpose of getting Billie's name and address from George that he had come to the cottage. And now that the moment had arrived for touching upon the subject, he felt a little embarrassed. "When you visited the castle," he said, "when you visited the castle . . ." "Last Thursday," said George helpfully. "Exactly. When you visited the castle last Thursday, there was a young lady with you." Not realizing that the subject had been changed, George was under the impression that the other had shifted his front and was about to attack him from another angle. He countered what seemed to him an insinuation stoutly. "We merely happened to meet at the castle. She came there quite independently of me." Lord Marshmoreton looked alarmed. "You didn't know her?" he said anxiously. "Certainly I knew her. She is an old friend of mine. But if you are hinting . . ." "Not at all," rejoined the earl, profoundly relieved. "Not at all. I ask merely because this young lady, with whom I had some conversation, was good enough to give me her name and address. She, too, happened to mistake me for a gardener." "It's those corduroy trousers," murmured George in extenuation. "I have unfortunately lost them." "You can always get another pair." "Eh?" "I say you can always get another pair of corduroy trousers." "I have not lost my trousers. I have lost the young lady's name and address." "Oh!" "I promised to send her some roses. She will be expecting them." "That's odd. I was just reading a letter from her when you came in. That must be what she's referring to when she says, 'If you see dadda, the old dear, tell him not to forget my roses.' I read it three times and couldn't make any sense out of it. Are you Dadda?" The earl smirked. "She did address me in the course of our conversation as dadda." "Then the message is for you." "A very quaint and charming girl. What is her name? And where can I find her?" "Her name's Billie Dore." "Billie?" "Billie." "Billie!" said Lord Marshmoreton softly. "I had better write it down. And her address?" "I don't know her private address. But you could always reach her at the Regal Theatre." "Ah! She is on the stage?" "Yes. She's in my piece, 'Follow the Girl'." "Indeed! Are you a playwright, Mr. Bevan?" "Good Lord, no!" said George, shocked. "I'm a composer." "Very interesting. And you met Miss Dore through her being in this play of yours?" "Oh, no. I knew her before she went on the stage. She was a stenographer in a music-publisher's office when we first met." "Good gracious! Was she really a stenographer?" "Yes. Why?" "Oh--ah--nothing, nothing. Something just happened to come to my mind." What happened to come into Lord Marshmoreton's mind was a fleeting vision of Billie installed in Miss Alice Faraday's place as his secretary. With such a helper it would be a pleasure to work on that infernal Family History which was now such a bitter toil. But the day-dream passed. He knew perfectly well that he had not the courage to dismiss Alice. In the hands of that calm-eyed girl he was as putty. She exercised over him the hypnotic spell a lion-tamer exercises over his little playmates. "We have been pals for years," said George. "Billie is one of the best fellows in the world." "A charming girl." "She would give her last nickel to anyone that asked for it." "Delightful!" "And as straight as a string. No one ever said a word against Billie." "No?" "She may go out to lunch and supper and all that kind of thing, but there's nothing to that." "Nothing!" agreed the earl warmly. "Girls must eat!" "They do. You ought to see them." "A little harmless relaxation after the fatigue of the day!" "Exactly. Nothing more." Lord Marshmoreton felt more drawn than ever to this sensible young man--sensible, at least, on all points but one. It was a pity they could not see eye to eye on what was and what was not suitable in the matter of the love-affairs of the aristocracy. "So you are a composer, Mr. Bevan?" he said affably. "Yes." Lord Marshmoreton gave a little sigh. "It's a long time since I went to see a musical performance. More than twenty years. When I was up at Oxford, and for some years afterwards, I was a great theatre-goer. Never used to miss a first night at the Gaiety. Those were the days of Nellie Farren and Kate Vaughan. Florence St. John, too. How excellent she was in Faust Up To Date! But we missed Nellie Farren. Meyer Lutz was the Gaiety composer then. But a good deal of water has flowed under the bridge since those days. I don't suppose you have ever heard of Meyer Lutz?" "I don't think I have." "Johnnie Toole was playing a piece called Partners. Not a good play. And the Yeoman of the Guard had just been produced at the Savoy. That makes it seem a long time ago, doesn't it? Well, I mustn't take up all your time. Good-bye, Mr. Bevan. I am glad to have had the opportunity of this little talk. The Regal Theatre, I think you said, is where your piece is playing? I shall probably be going to London shortly. I hope to see it." Lord Marshmoreton rose. "As regards the other matter, there is no hope of inducing you to see the matter in the right light?" "We seem to disagree as to which is the right light." "Then there is nothing more to be said. I will be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Bevan. I like you . . ." "The feeling is quite mutual." "But I don't want you as a son-in-law. And, dammit," exploded Lord Marshmoreton, "I won't have you as a son-in-law! Good God! do you think that you can harry and assault my son Percy in the heart of Piccadilly and generally make yourself a damned nuisance and then settle down here without an invitation at my very gates and expect to be welcomed into the bosom of the family? If I were a young man . . ." "I thought we had agreed that you were a young man." "Don't interrupt me!" "I only said . . ." "I heard what you said. Flattery!" "Nothing of the kind. Truth." Lord Marshmoreton melted. He smiled. "Young idiot!" "We agree there all right." Lord Marshmoreton hesitated. Then with a rush he unbosomed himself, and made his own position on the matter clear. "I know what you'll be saying to yourself the moment my back is turned. You'll be calling me a stage heavy father and an old snob and a number of other things. Don't interrupt me, dammit! You will, I tell you! And you'll be wrong. I don't think the Marshmoretons are fenced off from the rest of the world by some sort of divinity. My sister does. Percy does. But Percy's an ass! If ever you find yourself thinking differently from my son Percy, on any subject, congratulate yourself. You'll be right." "But . . ." "I know what you're going to say. Let me finish. If I were the only person concerned, I wouldn't stand in Maud's way, whoever she wanted to marry, provided he was a good fellow and likely to make her happy. But I'm not. There's my sister Caroline. There's a whole crowd of silly, cackling fools--my sisters--my sons-in-law--all the whole pack of them! If I didn't oppose Maud in this damned infatuation she's got for you--if I stood by and let her marry you--what do you think would happen to me?--I'd never have a moment's peace! The whole gabbling pack of them would be at me, saying I was to blame. There would be arguments, discussions, family councils! I hate arguments! I loathe discussions! Family councils make me sick! I'm a peaceable man, and I like a quiet life! And, damme, I'm going to have it. So there's the thing for you in letters of one syllable. I don't object to you personally, but I'm not going to have you bothering me like this. I'll admit freely that, since I have made your acquaintance, I have altered the unfavourable opinion I had formed of you from--from hearsay. . ." "Exactly the same with me," said George. "You ought never to believe what people tell you. Everyone told me your middle name was Nero, and that. . ." "Don't interrupt me!" "I wasn't. I was just pointing out . . ." "Be quiet! I say I have changed my opinion of you to a great extent. I mention this unofficially, as a matter that has no bearing on the main issue; for, as regards any idea you may have of inducing me to agree to your marrying my daughter, let me tell you that I am unalterably opposed to any such thing!" "Don't say that." "What the devil do you mean--don't say that! I do say that! It is out of the question. Do you understand? Very well, then. Good morning." The door closed. Lord Marshmoreton walked away feeling that he had been commendably stern. George filled his pipe and sat smoking thoughtfully. He wondered what Maud was doing at that moment. Maud at that moment was greeting her brother with a bright smile, as he limped downstairs after a belated shave and change of costume. "Oh, Percy, dear," she was saying, "I had quite an adventure this morning. An awful tramp followed me for miles! Such a horrible-looking brute. I was so frightened that I had to ask a curate in the next village to drive him away. I did wish I had had you there to protect me. Why don't you come out with me sometimes when I take a country walk? It really isn't safe for me to be alone!" CHAPTER 17. The gift of hiding private emotion and keeping up appearances before strangers is not, as many suppose, entirely a product of our modern civilization. Centuries before we were born or thought of there was a widely press-agented boy in Sparta who even went so far as to let a fox gnaw his tender young stomach without permitting the discomfort inseparable from such a proceeding to interfere with either his facial expression or his flow of small talk. Historians have handed it down that, even in the later stages of the meal, the polite lad continued to be the life and soul of the party. But, while this feat may be said to have established a record never subsequently lowered, there is no doubt that almost every day in modern times men and women are performing similar and scarcely less impressive miracles of self-restraint. Of all the qualities which belong exclusively to Man and are not shared by the lower animals, this surely is the one which marks him off most sharply from the beasts of the field. Animals care nothing about keeping up appearances. Observe Bertram the Bull when things are not going just as he could wish. He stamps. He snorts. He paws the ground. He throws back his head and bellows. He is upset, and he doesn't care who knows it. Instances could be readily multiplied. Deposit a charge of shot in some outlying section of Thomas the Tiger, and note the effect. Irritate Wilfred the Wasp, or stand behind Maud the Mule and prod her with a pin. There is not an animal on the list who has even a rudimentary sense of the social amenities; and it is this more than anything else which should make us proud that we are human beings on a loftier plane of development. In the days which followed Lord Marshmoreton's visit to George at the cottage, not a few of the occupants of Belpher Castle had their mettle sternly tested in this respect; and it is a pleasure to be able to record that not one of them failed to come through the ordeal with success. The general public, as represented by the uncles, cousins, and aunts who had descended on the place to help Lord Belpher celebrate his coming-of-age, had not a notion that turmoil lurked behind the smooth fronts of at least half a dozen of those whom they met in the course of the daily round. Lord Belpher, for example, though he limped rather painfully, showed nothing of the baffled fury which was reducing his weight at the rate of ounces a day. His uncle Francis, the Bishop, when he tackled him in the garden on the subject of Intemperance--for Uncle Francis, like thousands of others, had taken it for granted, on reading the report of the encounter with the policeman and Percy's subsequent arrest, that the affair had been the result of a drunken outburst--had no inkling of the volcanic emotions that seethed in his nephew's bosom. He came away from the interview, indeed, feeling that the boy had listened attentively and with a becoming regret, and that there was hope for him after all, provided that he fought the impulse. He little knew that, but for the conventions (which frown on the practice of murdering bishops), Percy would gladly have strangled him with his bare hands and jumped upon the remains. Lord Belpher's case, inasmuch as he took himself extremely seriously and was not one of those who can extract humour even from their own misfortunes, was perhaps the hardest which comes under our notice; but his sister Maud was also experiencing mental disquietude of no mean order. Everything had gone wrong with Maud. Barely a mile separated her from George, that essential link in her chain of communication with Geoffrey Raymond; but so thickly did it bristle with obstacles and dangers that it might have been a mile of No Man's Land. Twice, since the occasion when the discovery of Lord Marshmoreton at the cottage had caused her to abandon her purpose of going in and explaining everything to George, had she attempted to make the journey; and each time some trifling, maddening accident had brought about failure. Once, just as she was starting, her aunt Augusta had insisted on joining her for what she described as "a nice long walk"; and the second time, when she was within a bare hundred yards of her objective, some sort of a cousin popped out from nowhere and forced his loathsome company on her. Foiled in this fashion, she had fallen back in desperation on her second line of attack. She had written a note to George, explaining the whole situation in good, clear phrases and begging him as a man of proved chivalry to help her. It had taken up much of one afternoon, this note, for it was not easy to write; and it had resulted in nothing. She had given it to Albert to deliver and Albert had returned empty-handed. "The gentleman said there was no answer, m'lady!" "No answer! But there must be an answer!" "No answer, m'lady. Those was his very words," stoutly maintained the black-souled boy, who had destroyed the letter within two minutes after it had been handed to him. He had not even bothered to read it. A deep, dangerous, dastardly stripling this, who fought to win and only to win. The ticket marked "R. Byng" was in his pocket, and in his ruthless heart a firm resolve that R. Byng and no other should have the benefit of his assistance. Maud could not understand it. That is to say, she resolutely kept herself from accepting the only explanation of the episode that seemed possible. In black and white she had asked George to go to London and see Geoffrey and arrange for the passage--through himself as a sort of clearing-house--of letters between Geoffrey and herself. She had felt from the first that such a request should be made by her in person and not through the medium of writing, but surely it was incredible that a man like George, who had been through so much for her and whose only reason for being in the neighbourhood was to help her, could have coldly refused without even a word. And yet what else was she to think? Now, more than ever, she felt alone in a hostile world. Yet, to her guests she was bright and entertaining. Not one of them had a suspicion that her life was not one of pure sunshine. Albert, I am happy to say, was thoroughly miserable. The little brute was suffering torments. He was showering anonymous Advice to the Lovelorn on Reggie Byng--excellent stuff, culled from the pages of weekly papers, of which there was a pile in the housekeeper's room, the property of a sentimental lady's maid--and nothing seemed to come of it. Every day, sometimes twice and thrice a day, he would leave on Reggie's dressing-table significant notes similar in tone to the one which he had placed there on the night of the ball; but, for all the effect they appeared to exercise on their recipient, they might have been blank pages. The choicest quotations from the works of such established writers as "Aunt Charlotte" of Forget-Me-Not and "Doctor Cupid", the heart-expert of Home Chat, expended themselves fruitlessly on Reggie. As far as Albert could ascertain--and he was one of those boys who ascertain practically everything within a radius of miles--Reggie positively avoided Maud's society. And this after reading "Doctor Cupid's" invaluable tip about "Seeking her company on all occasions" and the dictum of "Aunt Charlotte" to the effect that "Many a wooer has won his lady by being persistent"--Albert spelled it "persistuent" but the effect is the same--"and rendering himself indispensable by constant little attentions". So far from rendering himself indispensable to Maud by constant little attentions, Reggie, to the disgust of his backer and supporter, seemed to spend most of his time with Alice Faraday. On three separate occasions had Albert been revolted by the sight of his protege in close association with the Faraday girl--once in a boat on the lake and twice in his grey car. It was enough to break a boy's heart; and it completely spoiled Albert's appetite--a phenomenon attributed, I am glad to say, in the Servants' Hall to reaction from recent excesses. The moment when Keggs, the butler, called him a greedy little pig and hoped it would be a lesson to him not to stuff himself at all hours with stolen cakes was a bitter moment for Albert. It is a relief to turn from the contemplation of these tortured souls to the pleasanter picture presented by Lord Marshmoreton. Here, undeniably, we have a man without a secret sorrow, a man at peace with this best of all possible worlds. Since his visit to George a second youth seems to have come upon Lord Marshmoreton. He works in his rose-garden with a new vim, whistling or even singing to himself stray gay snatches of melodies popular in the 'eighties. Hear him now as he toils. He has a long garden-implement in his hand, and he is sending up the death-rate in slug circles with a devastating rapidity. "Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay Ta-ra-ra BOOM--" And the boom is a death-knell. As it rings softly out on the pleasant spring air, another stout slug has made the Great Change. It is peculiar, this gaiety. It gives one to think. Others have noticed it, his lordship's valet amongst them. "I give you my honest word, Mr. Keggs," says the valet, awed, "this very morning I 'eard the old devil a-singing in 'is barth! Chirruping away like a blooming linnet!" "Lor!" says Keggs, properly impressed. "And only last night 'e gave me 'arf a box of cigars and said I was a good, faithful feller! I tell you, there's somethin' happened to the old buster--you mark my words!" CHAPTER 18. Over this complex situation the mind of Keggs, the butler, played like a searchlight. Keggs was a man of discernment and sagacity. He had instinct and reasoning power. Instinct told him that Maud, all unsuspecting the change that had taken place in Albert's attitude toward her romance, would have continued to use the boy as a link between herself and George: and reason, added to an intimate knowledge of Albert, enabled him to see that the latter must inevitably have betrayed her trust. He was prepared to bet a hundred pounds that Albert had been given letters to deliver and had destroyed them. So much was clear to Keggs. It only remained to settle on some plan of action which would re-establish the broken connection. Keggs did not conceal a tender heart beneath a rugged exterior: he did not mourn over the picture of two loving fellow human beings separated by a misunderstanding; but he did want to win that sweepstake. His position, of course, was delicate. He could not go to Maud and beg her to confide in him. Maud would not understand his motives, and might leap to the not unjustifiable conclusion that he had been at the sherry. No! Men were easier to handle than women. As soon as his duties would permit--and in the present crowded condition of the house they were arduous--he set out for George's cottage. "I trust I do not disturb or interrupt you, sir," he said, beaming in the doorway like a benevolent high priest. He had doffed his professional manner of austere disapproval, as was his custom in moments of leisure. "Not at all," replied George, puzzled. "Was there anything . . .?" "There was, sir." "Come along in and sit down." "I would not take the liberty, if it is all the same to you, sir. I would prefer to remain standing." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable, that is to say, on the part of George, who was wondering if the butler remembered having engaged him as a waiter only a few nights back. Keggs himself was at his ease. Few things ruffled this man. "Fine day," said George. "Extremely, sir, but for the rain." "Oh, is it raining?" "Sharp downpour, sir." "Good for the crops," said George. "So one would be disposed to imagine, sir." Silence fell again. The rain dripped from the eaves. "If I might speak freely, sir . . .?" said Keggs. "Sure. Shoot!" "I beg your pardon, sir?" "I mean, yes. Go ahead!" The butler cleared his throat. "Might I begin by remarking that your little affair of the 'eart, if I may use the expression, is no secret in the Servants' 'All? I 'ave no wish to seem to be taking a liberty or presuming, but I should like to intimate that the Servants' 'All is aware of the facts." "You don't have to tell me that," said George coldly. "I know all about the sweepstake." A flicker of embarrassment passed over the butler's large, smooth face--passed, and was gone. "I did not know that you 'ad been apprised of that little matter, sir. But you will doubtless understand and appreciate our point of view. A little sporting flutter--nothing more--designed to halleviate the monotony of life in the country." "Oh, don't apologize," said George, and was reminded of a point which had exercised him a little from time to time since his vigil on the balcony. "By the way, if it isn't giving away secrets, who drew Plummer?" "Sir?" "Which of you drew a man named Plummer in the sweep?" "I rather fancy, sir," Keggs' brow wrinkled in thought, "I rather fancy it was one of the visiting gentlemen's gentlemen. I gave the point but slight attention at the time. I did not fancy Mr. Plummer's chances. It seemed to me that Mr. Plummer was a negligible quantity." "Your knowledge of form was sound. Plummer's out!" "Indeed, sir! An amiable young gentleman, but lacking in many of the essential qualities. Perhaps he struck you that way, sir?" "I never met him. Nearly, but not quite!" "It entered my mind that you might possibly have encountered Mr. Plummer on the night of the ball, sir." "Ah, I was wondering if you remembered me!" "I remember you perfectly, sir, and it was the fact that we had already met in what one might almost term a social way that emboldened me to come 'ere today and offer you my services as a hintermediary, should you feel disposed to avail yourself of them." George was puzzled. "Your services?" "Precisely, sir. I fancy I am in a position to lend you what might be termed an 'elping 'and." "But that's remarkably altruistic of you, isn't it?" "Sir?" "I say that is very generous of you. Aren't you forgetting that you drew Mr. Byng?" The butler smiled indulgently. "You are not quite abreast of the progress of events, sir. Since the original drawing of names, there 'as been a trifling hadjustment. The boy Albert now 'as Mr. Byng and I 'ave you, sir. A little amicable arrangement informally conducted in the scullery on the night of the ball." "Amicable?" "On my part, entirely so." George began to understand certain things that had been perplexing to him. "Then all this while. . .?" "Precisely, sir. All this while 'er ladyship, under the impression that the boy Albert was devoted to 'er cause, has no doubt been placing a misguided confidence in 'im . . . The little blighter!" said Keggs, abandoning for a moment his company manners and permitting vehemence to take the place of polish. "I beg your pardon for the expression, sir," he added gracefully. "It escaped me inadvertently." "You think that Lady Maud gave Albert a letter to give to me, and that he destroyed it?" "Such, I should imagine, must undoubtedly have been the case. The boy 'as no scruples, no scruples whatsoever." "Good Lord!" "I appreciate your consternation, sir." "That must be exactly what has happened." "To my way of thinking there is no doubt of it. It was for that reason that I ventured to come 'ere. In the 'ope that I might be hinstrumental in arranging a meeting." The strong distaste which George had had for plotting with this overfed menial began to wane. It might be undignified, he told himself but it was undeniably practical. And, after all, a man who has plotted with page-boys has little dignity to lose by plotting with butlers. He brightened up. If it meant seeing Maud again he was prepared to waive the decencies. "What do you suggest?" he said. "It being a rainy evening and everyone indoors playing games and what not,"--Keggs was amiably tolerant of the recreations of the aristocracy--"you would experience little chance of a hinterruption, were you to proceed to the lane outside the heast entrance of the castle grounds and wait there. You will find in the field at the roadside a small disused barn only a short way from the gates, where you would be sheltered from the rain. In the meantime, I would hinform 'er ladyship of your movements, and no doubt it would be possible for 'er to slip off." "It sounds all right." "It is all right, sir. The chances of a hinterruption may be said to be reduced to a minimum. Shall we say in one hour's time?" "Very well." "Then I will wish you good evening, sir. Thank you, sir. I am glad to 'ave been of assistance." He withdrew as he had come, with a large impressiveness. The room seemed very empty without him. George, with trembling fingers, began to put on a pair of thick boots. For some minutes after he had set foot outside the door of the cottage, George was inclined to revile the weather for having played him false. On this evening of all evenings, he felt, the elements should, so to speak, have rallied round and done their bit. The air should have been soft and clear and scented: there should have been an afterglow of sunset in the sky to light him on his way. Instead, the air was full of that peculiar smell of hopeless dampness which comes at the end of a wet English day. The sky was leaden. The rain hissed down in a steady flow, whispering of mud and desolation, making a dreary morass of the lane through which he tramped. A curious sense of foreboding came upon George. It was as if some voice of the night had murmured maliciously in his ear a hint of troubles to come. He felt oddly nervous, as he entered the barn. The barn was both dark and dismal. In one of the dark corners an intermittent dripping betrayed the presence of a gap in its ancient roof. A rat scurried across the floor. The dripping stopped and began again. George struck a match and looked at his watch. He was early. Another ten minutes must elapse before he could hope for her arrival. He sat down on a broken wagon which lay on its side against one of the walls. Depression returned. It was impossible to fight against it in this beast of a barn. The place was like a sepulchre. No one but a fool of a butler would have suggested it as a trysting-place. He wondered irritably why places like this were allowed to get into this condition. If people wanted a barn earnestly enough to take the trouble of building one, why was it not worth while to keep the thing in proper repair? Waste and futility! That was what it was. That was what everything was, if you came down to it. Sitting here, for instance, was a futile waste of time. She wouldn't come. There were a dozen reasons why she should not come. So what was the use of his courting rheumatism by waiting in this morgue of dead agricultural ambitions? None whatever--George went on waiting. And what an awful place to expect her to come to, if by some miracle she did come--where she would be stifled by the smell of mouldy hay, damped by raindrops and--reflected George gloomily as there was another scurry and scutter along the unseen floor--gnawed by rats. You could not expect a delicately-nurtured girl, accustomed to all the comforts of a home, to be bright and sunny with a platoon of rats crawling all over her. . . . The grey oblong that was the doorway suddenly darkened. "Mr. Bevan!" George sprang up. At the sound of her voice every nerve in his body danced in mad exhilaration. He was another man. Depression fell from him like a garment. He perceived that he had misjudged all sorts of things. The evening, for instance, was a splendid evening--not one of those awful dry, baking evenings which make you feel you can't breathe, but pleasantly moist and full of a delightfully musical patter of rain. And the barn! He had been all wrong about the barn. It was a great little place, comfortable, airy, and cheerful. What could be more invigorating than that smell of hay? Even the rats, he felt, must be pretty decent rats, when you came to know them. "I'm here!" Maud advanced quickly. His eyes had grown accustomed to the murk, and he could see her dimly. The smell of her damp raincoat came to him like a breath of ozone. He could even see her eyes shining in the darkness, so close was she to him. "I hope you've not been waiting long?" George's heart was thundering against his ribs. He could scarcely speak. He contrived to emit a No. "I didn't think at first I could get away. I had to . . ." She broke off with a cry. The rat, fond of exercise like all rats, had made another of its excitable sprints across the floor. A hand clutched nervously at George's arm, found it and held it. And at the touch the last small fragment of George's self-control fled from him. The world became vague and unreal. There remained of it but one solid fact--the fact that Maud was in his arms and that he was saying a number of things very rapidly in a voice that seemed to belong to somebody he had never met before. CHAPTER 19. With a shock of dismay so abrupt and overwhelming that it was like a physical injury, George became aware that something was wrong. Even as he gripped her, Maud had stiffened with a sharp cry; and now she was struggling, trying to wrench herself free. She broke away from him. He could hear her breathing hard. "You--you----" She gulped. "Maud!" "How dare you!" There was a pause that seemed to George to stretch on and on endlessly. The rain pattered on the leaky roof. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled dismally. The darkness pressed down like a blanket, stifling thought. "Good night, Mr. Bevan." Her voice was ice. "I didn't think you were--that kind of man." She was moving toward the door; and, as she reached it, George's stupor left him. He came back to life with a jerk, shaking from head to foot. All his varied emotions had become one emotion--a cold fury. "Stop!" Maud stopped. Her chin was tilted, and she was wasting a baleful glare on the darkness. "Well, what is it?" Her tone increased George's wrath. The injustice of it made him dizzy. At that moment he hated her. He was the injured party. It was he, not she, that had been deceived and made a fool of. "I want to say something before you go." "I think we had better say no more about it!" By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself from speaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushed to his lips. "I think we will!" he said between his teeth. Maud's anger became tinged with surprise. Now that the first shock of the wretched episode was over, the calmer half of her mind was endeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George's behaviour had been but a momentary lapse, and that a man may lose his head for one wild instant, and yet remain fundamentally a gentleman and a friend. She had begun to remind herself that this man had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two before had actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment. When she heard him call to her to stop, she supposed that his better feelings had reasserted themselves; and she had prepared herself to receive with dignity a broken, stammered apology. But the voice that had just spoken with a crisp, biting intensity was not the voice of remorse. It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, who was commanding--not begging--her to stop and listen to him. "Well?" she said again, more coldly this time. She was quite unable to understand this attitude of his. She was the injured party. It was she, not he who had trusted and been betrayed. "I should like to explain." "Please do not apologize." George ground his teeth in the gloom. "I haven't the slightest intention of apologizing. I said I would like to explain. When I have finished explaining, you can go." "I shall go when I please," flared Maud. This man was intolerable. "There is nothing to be afraid of. There will be no repetition of the--incident." Maud was outraged by this monstrous misinterpretation of her words. "I am not afraid!" "Then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to listen. I won't detain you long. My explanation is quite simple. I have been made a fool of. I seem to be in the position of the tinker in the play whom everybody conspired to delude into the belief that he was a king. First a friend of yours, Mr. Byng, came to me and told me that you had confided to him that you loved me." Maud gasped. Either this man was mad, or Reggie Byng was. She choose the politer solution. "Reggie Byng must have lost his senses." "So I supposed. At least, I imagined that he must be mistaken. But a man in love is an optimistic fool, of course, and I had loved you ever since you got into my cab that morning . . ." "What!" "So after a while," proceeded George, ignoring the interruption, "I almost persuaded myself that miracles could still happen, and that what Byng said was true. And when your father called on me and told me the very same thing I was convinced. It seemed incredible, but I had to believe it. Now it seems that, for some inscrutable reason, both Byng and your father were making a fool of me. That's all. Good night." Maud's reply was the last which George or any man would have expected. There was a moment's silence, and then she burst into a peal of laughter. It was the laughter of over-strained nerves, but to George's ears it had the ring of genuine amusement. "I'm glad you find my story entertaining," he said dryly. He was convinced now that he loathed this girl, and that all he desired was to see her go out of his life for ever. "Later, no doubt, the funny side of it will hit me. Just at present my sense of humour is rather dormant." Maud gave a little cry. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Mr. Bevan. It wasn't that. It wasn't that at all. Oh, I am so sorry. I don't know why I laughed. It certainly wasn't because I thought it funny. It's tragic. There's been a dreadful mistake!" "I noticed that," said George bitterly. The darkness began to afflict his nerves. "I wish to God we had some light." The glare of a pocket-torch smote upon him. "I brought it to see my way back with," said Maud in a curious, small voice. "It's very dark across the fields. I didn't light it before, because I was afraid somebody might see." She came towards him, holding the torch over her head. The beam showed her face, troubled and sympathetic, and at the sight all George's resentment left him. There were mysteries here beyond his unravelling, but of one thing he was certain: this girl was not to blame. She was a thoroughbred, as straight as a wand. She was pure gold. "I came here to tell you everything," she said. She placed the torch on the wagon-wheel so that its ray fell in a pool of light on the ground between them. "I'll do it now. Only--only it isn't so easy now. Mr. Bevan, there's a man--there's a man that father and Reggie Byng mistook--they thought . . . You see, they knew it was you that I was with that day in the cab, and so they naturally thought, when you came down here, that you were the man I had gone to meet that day--the man I--I--" "The man you love." "Yes," said Maud in a small voice; and there was silence again. George could feel nothing but sympathy. It mastered other emotion in him, even the grey despair that had come her words. He could feel all that she was feeling. "Tell me all about it," he said. "I met him in Wales last year." Maud's voice was a whisper. "The family found out, and I was hurried back here, and have been here ever since. That day when I met you I had managed to slip away from home. I had found out that he was in London, and I was going to meet him. Then I saw Percy, and got into your cab. It's all been a horrible mistake. I'm sorry." "I see," said George thoughtfully. "I see." His heart ached like a living wound. She had told so little, and he could guess so much. This unknown man who had triumphed seemed to sneer scornfully at him from the shadows. "I'm sorry," said Maud again. "You mustn't feel like that. How can I help you? That's the point. What is it you want me to do?" "But I can't ask you now." "Of course you can. Why not?" "Why--oh, I couldn't!" George managed to laugh. It was a laugh that did not sound convincing even to himself, but it served. "That's morbid," he said. "Be sensible. You need help, and I may be able to give it. Surely a man isn't barred for ever from doing you a service just because he happens to love you? Suppose you were drowning and Mr. Plummer was the only swimmer within call, wouldn't you let him rescue you?" "Mr. Plummer? What do you mean?" "You've not forgotten that I was a reluctant ear-witness to his recent proposal of marriage?" Maud uttered an exclamation. "I never asked! How terrible of me. Were you much hurt?" "Hurt?" George could not follow her. "That night. When you were on the balcony, and--" "Oh!" George understood. "Oh, no, hardly at all. A few scratches. I scraped my hands a little." "It was a wonderful thing to do," said Maud, her admiration glowing for a man who could treat such a leap so lightly. She had always had a private theory that Lord Leonard, after performing the same feat, had bragged about it for the rest of his life. "No, no, nothing," said George, who had since wondered why he had ever made such a to-do about climbing up a perfectly stout sheet. "It was splendid!" George blushed. "We are wandering from the main theme," he said. "I want to help you. I came here at enormous expense to help you. How can I do it?" Maud hesitated. "I think you may be offended at my asking such a thing." "You needn't." "You see, the whole trouble is that I can't get in touch with Geoffrey. He's in London, and I'm here. And any chance I might have of getting to London vanished that day I met you, when Percy saw me in Piccadilly." "How did your people find out it was you?" "They asked me--straight out." "And you owned up?" "I had to. I couldn't tell them a direct lie." George thrilled. This was the girl he had had doubts of. "So than it was worse then ever," continued Maud. "I daren't risk writing to Geoffrey and having the letter intercepted. I was wondering--I had the idea almost as soon as I found that you had come here--" "You want me to take a letter from you and see that it reaches him. And then he can write back to my address, and I can smuggle the letter to you?" "That's exactly what I do want. But I almost didn't like to ask." "Why not? I'll be delighted to do it." "I'm so grateful." "Why, it's nothing. I thought you were going to ask me to look in on your brother and smash another of his hats." Maud laughed delightedly. The whole tension of the situation had been eased for her. More and more she found herself liking George. Yet, deep down in her, she realized with a pang that for him there had been no easing of the situation. She was sad for George. The Plummers of this world she had consigned to what they declared would be perpetual sorrow with scarcely a twinge of regret. But George was different. "Poor Percy!" she said. "I don't suppose he'll ever get over it. He will have other hats, but it won't be the same." She came back to the subject nearest her heart. "Mr. Bevan, I wonder if you would do just a little more for me?" "If it isn't criminal. Or, for that matter, if it is." "Could you go to Geoffrey, and see him, and tell him all about me and--and come back and tell me how he looks, and what he said and--and so on?" "Certainly. What is his name, and where do I find him?" "I never told you. How stupid of me. His name is Geoffrey Raymond, and he lives with his uncle, Mr. Wilbur Raymond, at 11a, Belgrave Square." "I'll go to him tomorrow." "Thank you ever so much." George got up. The movement seemed to put him in touch with the outer world. He noticed that the rain had stopped, and that stars had climbed into the oblong of the doorway. He had an impression that he had been in the barn a very long time; and confirmed this with a glance at his watch, though the watch, he felt, understated the facts by the length of several centuries. He was abstaining from too close an examination of his emotions from a prudent feeling that he was going to suffer soon enough without assistance from himself. "I think you had better be going back," he said. "It's rather late. They may be missing you." Maud laughed happily. "I don't mind now what they do. But I suppose dinners must be dressed for, whatever happens." They moved together to the door. "What a lovely night after all! I never thought the rain would stop in this world. It's like when you're unhappy and think it's going on for ever." "Yes," said George. Maud held out her hand. "Good night, Mr. Bevan." "Good night." He wondered if there would be any allusion to the earlier passages of their interview. There was none. Maud was of the class whose education consists mainly of a training in the delicate ignoring of delicate situations. "Then you will go and see Geoffrey?" "Tomorrow." "Thank you ever so much." "Not at all." George admired her. The little touch of formality which she had contrived to impart to the conversation struck just the right note, created just the atmosphere which would enable them to part without weighing too heavily on the deeper aspect of that parting. "You're a real friend, Mr. Bevan." "Watch me prove it." "Well, I must rush, I suppose. Good night!" "Good night!" She moved off quickly across the field. Darkness covered her. The dog in the distance had begun to howl again. He had his troubles, too. CHAPTER 20. Trouble sharpens the vision. In our moments of distress we can see clearly that what is wrong with this world of ours is the fact that Misery loves company and seldom gets it. Toothache is an unpleasant ailment; but, if toothache were a natural condition of life, if all mankind were afflicted with toothache at birth, we should not notice it. It is the freedom from aching teeth of all those with whom we come in contact that emphasizes the agony. And, as with toothache, so with trouble. Until our private affairs go wrong, we never realize how bubbling over with happiness the bulk of mankind seems to be. Our aching heart is apparently nothing but a desert island in an ocean of joy. George, waking next morning with a heavy heart, made this discovery before the day was an hour old. The sun was shining, and birds sang merrily, but this did not disturb him. Nature is ever callous to human woes, laughing while we weep; and we grow to take her callousness for granted. What jarred upon George was the infernal cheerfulness of his fellow men. They seemed to be doing it on purpose--triumphing over him--glorying in the fact that, however Fate might have shattered him, they were all right. People were happy who had never been happy before. Mrs. Platt, for instance. A grey, depressed woman of middle age, she had seemed hitherto to have few pleasures beyond breaking dishes and relating the symptoms of sick neighbours who were not expected to live through the week. She now sang. George could hear her as she prepared his breakfast in the kitchen. At first he had had a hope that she was moaning with pain; but this was dispelled when he had finished his toilet and proceeded downstairs. The sounds she emitted suggested anguish, but the words, when he was able to distinguish them, told another story. Incredible as it might seem, on this particular morning Mrs. Platt had elected to be light-hearted. What she was singing sounded like a dirge, but actually it was "Stop your tickling, Jock!" And, later, when she brought George his coffee and eggs, she spent a full ten minutes prattling as he tried to read his paper, pointing out to him a number of merry murders and sprightly suicides which otherwise he might have missed. The woman went out of her way to show him that for her, if not for less fortunate people, God this morning was in His heaven and all was right in the world. Two tramps of supernatural exuberance called at the cottage shortly after breakfast to ask George, whom they had never even consulted about their marriages, to help support their wives and children. Nothing could have been more care-free and _debonnaire_ than the demeanour of these men. And then Reggie Byng arrived in his grey racing car, more cheerful than any of them. Fate could not have mocked George more subtly. A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, and the sight of Reggie in that room reminded him that on the last occasion when they had talked together across this same table it was he who had been in a Fool's Paradise and Reggie who had borne a weight of care. Reggie this morning was brighter than the shining sun and gayer than the carolling birds. "Hullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ul-lo! Topping morning, isn't it!" observed Reggie. "The sunshine! The birds! The absolute what-do-you-call-it of everything and so forth, and all that sort of thing, if you know what I mean! I feel like a two-year-old!" George, who felt older than this by some ninety-eight years, groaned in spirit. This was more than man was meant to bear. "I say," continued Reggie, absently reaching out for a slice of bread and smearing it with marmalade, "this business of marriage, now, and all that species of rot! What I mean to say is, what about it? Not a bad scheme, taking it by and large? Or don't you think so?" George writhed. The knife twisted in the wound. Surely it was bad enough to see a happy man eating bread and marmalade without having to listen to him talking about marriage. "Well, anyhow, be that as it may," said Reggie, biting jovially and speaking in a thick but joyous voice. "I'm getting married today, and chance it. This morning, this very morning, I leap off the dock!" George was startled out of his despondency. "What!" "Absolutely, laddie!" George remembered the conventions. "I congratulate you." "Thanks, old man. And not without reason. I'm the luckiest fellow alive. I hardly knew I was alive till now." "Isn't this rather sudden?" Reggie looked a trifle furtive. His manner became that of a conspirator. "I should jolly well say it is sudden! It's got to be sudden. Dashed sudden and deuced secret! If the mater were to hear of it, there's no doubt whatever she would form a flying wedge and bust up the proceedings with no uncertain voice. You see, laddie, it's Miss Faraday I'm marrying, and the mater--dear old soul--has other ideas for Reginald. Life's a rummy thing, isn't it! What I mean to say is, it's rummy, don't you know, and all that." "Very," agreed George. "Who'd have thought, a week ago, that I'd be sitting in this jolly old chair asking you to be my best man? Why, a week ago I didn't know you, and, if anybody had told me Alice Faraday was going to marry me, I'd have given one of those hollow, mirthless laughs." "Do you want me to be your best man?" "Absolutely, if you don't mind. You see," said Reggie confidentially, "it's like this. I've got lots of pals, of course, buzzing about all over London and its outskirts, who'd be glad enough to rally round and join the execution-squad; but you know how it is. Their maters are all pals of my mater, and I don't want to get them into trouble for aiding and abetting my little show, if you understand what I mean. Now, you're different. You don't know the mater, so it doesn't matter to you if she rolls around and puts the Curse of the Byngs on you, and all that sort of thing. Besides, I don't know." Reggie mused. "Of course, this is the happiest day of my life," he proceeded, "and I'm not saying it isn't, but you know how it is--there's absolutely no doubt that a chappie does not show at his best when he's being married. What I mean to say is, he's more or less bound to look a fearful ass. And I'm perfectly certain it would put me right off my stroke if I felt that some chump like Jack Ferris or Ronnie Fitzgerald was trying not to giggle in the background. So, if you will be a sportsman and come and hold my hand till the thing's over, I shall be eternally grateful." "Where are you going to be married?" "In London. Alice sneaked off there last night. It was easy, as it happened, because by a bit of luck old Marshmoreton had gone to town yesterday morning--nobody knows why: he doesn't go up to London more than a couple of times a year. She's going to meet me at the Savoy, and then the scheme was to toddle round to the nearest registrar and request the lad to unleash the marriage service. I'm whizzing up in the car, and I'm hoping to be able to persuade you to come with me. Say the word, laddie!" George reflected. He liked Reggie, and there was no particular reason in the world why he should not give him aid and comfort in this crisis. True, in his present frame of mind, it would be torture to witness a wedding ceremony; but he ought not to let that stand in the way of helping a friend. "All right," he said. "Stout fellow! I don't know how to thank you. It isn't putting you out or upsetting your plans, I hope, or anything on those lines?" "Not at all. I had to go up to London today, anyway." "Well, you can't get there quicker than in my car. She's a hummer. By the way, I forgot to ask. How is your little affair coming along? Everything going all right?" "In a way," said George. He was not equal to confiding his troubles to Reggie. "Of course, your trouble isn't like mine was. What I mean is, Maud loves you, and all that, and all you've got to think out is a scheme for laying the jolly old family a stymie. It's a pity--almost--that yours isn't a case of having to win the girl, like me; because by Jove, laddie," said Reggie with solemn emphasis, "I could help you there. I've got the thing down fine. I've got the infallible dope." George smiled bleakly. "You have? You're a useful fellow to have around. I wish you would tell me what it is." "But you don't need it." "No, of course not. I was forgetting." Reggie looked at his watch. "We ought to be shifting in a quarter of an hour or so. I don't want to be late. It appears that there's a catch of some sort in this business of getting married. As far as I can make out, if you roll in after a certain hour, the Johnnie in charge of the proceedings gives you the miss-in-baulk, and you have to turn up again next day. However, we shall be all right unless we have a breakdown, and there's not much chance of that. I've been tuning up the old car since seven this morning, and she's sound in wind and limb, absolutely. Oil--petrol--water--air--nuts--bolts--sprockets-- carburetor--all present and correct. I've been looking after them like a lot of baby sisters. Well, as I was saying, I've got the dope. A week ago I was just one of the mugs--didn't know a thing about it--but now! Gaze on me, laddie! You see before you old Colonel Romeo, the Man who Knows! It all started on the night of the ball. There was the dickens of a big ball, you know, to celebrate old Boots' coming-of-age--to which, poor devil, he contributed nothing but the sunshine of his smile, never having learned to dance. On that occasion a most rummy and extraordinary thing happened. I got pickled to the eyebrows!" He laughed happily. "I don't mean that that was a unique occurrence and so forth, because, when I was a bachelor, it was rather a habit of mine to get a trifle submerged every now and again on occasions of decent mirth and festivity. But the rummy thing that night was that I showed it. Up till then, I've been told by experts, I was a chappie in whom it was absolutely impossible to detect the symptoms. You might get a bit suspicious if you found I couldn't move, but you could never be certain. On the night of the ball, however, I suppose I had been filling the radiator a trifle too enthusiastically. You see, I had deliberately tried to shove myself more or less below the surface in order to get enough nerve to propose to Alice. I don't know what your experience has been, but mine is that proposing's a thing that simply isn't within the scope of a man who isn't moderately woozled. I've often wondered how marriages ever occur in the dry States of America. Well, as I was saying, on the night of the ball a most rummy thing happened. I thought one of the waiters was you!" He paused impressively to allow this startling statement to sink in. "And was he?" said George. "Absolutely not! That was the rummy part of it. He looked as like you as your twin brother." "I haven't a twin brother." "No, I know what you mean, but what I mean to say is he looked just like your twin brother would have looked if you had had a twin brother. Well, I had a word or two with this chappie, and after a brief conversation it was borne in upon me that I was up to the gills. Alice was with me at the time, and noticed it too. Now you'd have thought that that would have put a girl off a fellow, and all that. But no. Nobody could have been more sympathetic. And she has confided to me since that it was seeing me in my oiled condition that really turned the scale. What I mean is, she made up her mind to save me from myself. You know how some girls are. Angels absolutely! Always on the look out to pluck brands from the burning, and what not. You may take it from me that the good seed was definitely sown that night." "Is that your recipe, then? You would advise the would-be bridegroom to buy a case of champagne and a wedding licence and get to work? After that it would be all over except sending out the invitations?" Reggie shook his head. "Not at all. You need a lot more than that. That's only the start. You've got to follow up the good work, you see. That's where a number of chappies would slip up, and I'm pretty certain I should have slipped up myself, but for another singularly rummy occurrence. Have you ever had a what-do-you-call it? What's the word I want? One of those things fellows get sometimes." "Headaches?" hazarded George. "No, no. Nothing like that. I don't mean anything you get--I mean something you get, if you know what I mean." "Measles?" "Anonymous letter. That's what I was trying to say. It's a most extraordinary thing, and I can't understand even now where the deuce they came from, but just about then I started to get a whole bunch of anonymous letters from some chappie unknown who didn't sign his name." "What you mean is that the letters were anonymous," said George. "Absolutely. I used to get two or three a day sometimes. Whenever I went up to my room, I'd find another waiting for me on the dressing-table." "Offensive?" "Eh?" "Were the letters offensive? Anonymous letters usually are." "These weren't. Not at all, and quite the reverse. They contained a series of perfectly topping tips on how a fellow should proceed who wants to get hold of a girl." "It sounds as though somebody had been teaching you ju-jitsu by post." "They were great! Real red-hot stuff straight from the stable. Priceless tips like 'Make yourself indispensable to her in little ways', 'Study her tastes', and so on and so forth. I tell you, laddie, I pretty soon stopped worrying about who was sending them to me, and concentrated the old bean on acting on them. They worked like magic. The last one came yesterday morning, and it was a topper! It was all about how a chappie who was nervous should proceed. Technical stuff, you know, about holding her hand and telling her you're lonely and being sincere and straightforward and letting your heart dictate the rest. Have you ever asked for one card when you wanted to fill a royal flush and happened to pick out the necessary ace? I did once, when I was up at Oxford, and, by Jove, this letter gave me just the same thrill. I didn't hesitate. I just sailed in. I was cold sober, but I didn't worry about that. Something told me I couldn't lose. It was like having to hole out a three-inch putt. And--well, there you are, don't you know." Reggie became thoughtful. "Dash it all! I'd like to know who the fellow was who sent me those letters. I'd like to send him a wedding-present or a bit of the cake or something. Though I suppose there won't be any cake, seeing the thing's taking place at a registrar's." "You could buy a bun," suggested George. "Well, I shall never know, I suppose. And now how about trickling forth? I say, laddie, you don't object if I sing slightly from time to time during the journey? I'm so dashed happy, you know." "Not at all, if it's not against the traffic regulations." Reggie wandered aimlessly about the room in an ecstasy. "It's a rummy thing," he said meditatively, "I've just remembered that, when I was at school, I used to sing a thing called the what's-it's-name's wedding song. At house-suppers, don't you know, and what not. Jolly little thing. I daresay you know it. It starts 'Ding dong! Ding dong!' or words to that effect, 'Hurry along! For it is my wedding-morning!' I remember you had to stretch out the 'mor' a bit. Deuced awkward, if you hadn't laid in enough breath. 'The Yeoman's Wedding-Song.' That was it. I knew it was some chappie or other's. And it went on 'And the bride in something or other is doing something I can't recollect.' Well, what I mean is, now it's my wedding-morning! Rummy, when you come to think of it, what? Well, as it's getting tolerable late, what about it? Shift ho?" "I'm ready. Would you like me to bring some rice?" "Thank you, laddie, no. Dashed dangerous stuff, rice! Worse than shrapnel. Got your hat? All set?" "I'm waiting." "Then let the revels commence," said Reggie. "Ding dong! Ding Dong! Hurry along! For it is my wedding-morning! And the bride-- Dash it, I wish I could remember what the bride was doing!" "Probably writing you a note to say that she's changed her mind, and it's all off." "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Reggie. "Come on!" CHAPTER 21. Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Byng, seated at a table in the corner of the Regent Grill-Room, gazed fondly into each other's eyes. George, seated at the same table, but feeling many miles away, watched them moodily, fighting to hold off a depression which, cured for a while by the exhilaration of the ride in Reggie's racing-car (it had beaten its previous record for the trip to London by nearly twenty minutes), now threatened to return. The gay scene, the ecstasy of Reggie, the more restrained but equally manifest happiness of his bride--these things induced melancholy in George. He had not wished to attend the wedding-lunch, but the happy pair seemed to be revolted at the idea that he should stroll off and get a bite to eat somewhere else. "Stick by us, laddie," Reggie had said pleadingly, "for there is much to discuss, and we need the counsel of a man of the world. We are married all right--" "Though it didn't seem legal in that little registrar's office," put in Alice. "--But that, as the blighters say in books, is but a beginning, not an end. We have now to think out the most tactful way of letting the news seep through, as it were, to the mater." "And Lord Marshmoreton," said Alice. "Don't forget he has lost his secretary." "And Lord Marshmoreton," amended Reggie. "And about a million other people who'll be most frightfully peeved at my doing the Wedding Glide without consulting them. Stick by us, old top. Join our simple meal. And over the old coronas we will discuss many things." The arrival of a waiter with dishes broke up the silent communion between husband and wife, and lowered Reggie to a more earthly plane. He refilled the glasses from the stout bottle that nestled in the ice-bucket--("Only this one, dear!" murmured the bride in a warning undertone, and "All right darling!" replied the dutiful groom)--and raised his own to his lips. "Cheerio! Here's to us all! Maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year and so forth. And now," he continued, becoming sternly practical, "about the good old sequel and aftermath, so to speak, of this little binge of ours. What's to be done. You're a brainy sort of feller, Bevan, old man, and we look to you for suggestions. How would you set about breaking the news to mother?" "Write her a letter," said George. Reggie was profoundly impressed. "Didn't I tell you he would have some devilish shrewd scheme?" he said enthusiastically to Alice. "Write her a letter! What could be better? Poetry, by Gad!" His face clouded. "But what would you say in it? That's a pretty knotty point." "Not at all. Be perfectly frank and straightforward. Say you are sorry to go against her wishes--" "Wishes," murmured Reggie, scribbling industrially on the back of the marriage licence. "--But you know that all she wants is your happiness--" Reggie looked doubtful. "I'm not sure about that last bit, old thing. You don't know the mater!" "Never mind, Reggie," put in Alice. "Say it, anyhow. Mr. Bevan is perfectly right." "Right ho, darling! All right, laddie--'happiness'. And then?" "Point out in a few well-chosen sentences how charming Mrs. Byng is . . ." "Mrs. Byng!" Reggie smiled fatuously. "I don't think I ever heard anything that sounded so indescribably ripping. That part'll be easy enough. Besides, the mater knows Alice." "Lady Caroline has seen me at the castle," said his bride doubtfully, "but I shouldn't say she knows me. She has hardly spoken a dozen words to me." "There," said Reggie, earnestly, "you're in luck, dear heart! The mater's a great speaker, especially in moments of excitement. I'm not looking forward to the time when she starts on me. Between ourselves, laddie, and meaning no disrespect to the dear soul, when the mater is moved and begins to talk, she uses up most of the language." "Outspoken, is she?" "I should hate to meet the person who could out-speak her," said Reggie. George sought information on a delicate point. "And financially? Does she exercise any authority over you in that way?" "You mean has the mater the first call on the family doubloons?" said Reggie. "Oh, absolutely not! You see, when I call her the mater, it's using the word in a loose sense, so to speak. She's my step-mother really. She has her own little collection of pieces of eight, and I have mine. That part's simple enough." "Then the whole thing is simple. I don't see what you've been worrying about." "Just what I keep telling him, Mr. Bevan," said Alice. "You're a perfectly free agent. She has no hold on you of any kind." Reggie Byng blinked dizzily. "Why, now you put it like that," he exclaimed, "I can see that I jolly well am! It's an amazing thing, you know, habit and all that. I've been so accustomed for years to jumping through hoops and shamming dead when the mater lifted a little finger, that it absolutely never occurred to me that I had a soul of my own. I give you my honest word I never saw it till this moment." "And now it's too late!" "Eh?" George indicated Alice with a gesture. The newly-made Mrs. Byng smiled. "Mr. Bevan means that now you've got to jump through hoops and sham dead when I lift a little finger!" Reggie raised her hand to his lips, and nibbled at it gently. "Blessums 'ittle finger! It shall lift it and have 'ums Reggie jumping through. . . ." He broke off and tendered George a manly apology. "Sorry, old top! Forgot myself for the moment. Shan't occur again! Have another chicken or an eclair or some soup or something!" Over the cigars Reggie became expansive. "Now that you've lifted the frightful weight of the mater off my mind, dear old lad," he said, puffing luxuriously, "I find myself surveying the future in a calmer spirit. It seems to me that the best thing to do, as regards the mater and everybody else, is simply to prolong the merry wedding-trip till Time the Great Healer has had a chance to cure the wound. Alice wants to put in a week or so in Paris. . . ." "Paris!" murmured the bride ecstatically. "Then I would like to trickle southwards to the Riviera. . ." "If you mean Monte Carlo, dear," said his wife with gentle firmness, "no!" "No, no, not Monte Carlo," said Reggie hastily, "though it's a great place. Air--scenery--and what not! But Nice and Bordighera and Mentone and other fairly ripe resorts. You'd enjoy them. And after that . . . I had a scheme for buying back my yacht, the jolly old Siren, and cruising about the Mediterranean for a month or so. I sold her to a local sportsman when I was in America a couple of years ago. But I saw in the paper yesterday that the poor old buffer had died suddenly, so I suppose it would be difficult to get hold of her for the time being." Reggie broke off with a sharp exclamation. "My sainted aunt!" "What's the matter?" Both his companions were looking past him, wide-eyed. George occupied the chair that had its back to the door, and was unable to see what it was that had caused their consternation; but he deduced that someone known to both of them must have entered the restaurant; and his first thought, perhaps naturally, was that it must be Reggie's "mater". Reggie dived behind a menu, which he held before him like a shield, and his bride, after one quick look, had turned away so that her face was hidden. George swung around, but the newcomer, whoever he or she was, was now seated and indistinguishable from the rest of the lunchers. "Who is it?" Reggie laid down the menu with the air of one who after a momentary panic rallies. "Don't know what I'm making such a fuss about," he said stoutly. "I keep forgetting that none of these blighters really matter in the scheme of things. I've a good mind to go over and pass the time of day." "Don't!" pleaded his wife. "I feel so guilty." "Who is it?" asked George again. "Your step-mother?" "Great Scott, no!" said Reggie. "Nothing so bad as that. It's old Marshmoreton." "Lord Marshmoreton!" "Absolutely! And looking positively festive." "I feel so awful, Mr. Bevan," said Alice. "You know, I left the castle without a word to anyone, and he doesn't know yet that there won't be any secretary waiting for him when he gets back." Reggie took another look over George's shoulder and chuckled. "It's all right, darling. Don't worry. We can nip off secretly by the other door. He's not going to stop us. He's got a girl with him! The old boy has come to life--absolutely! He's gassing away sixteen to the dozen to a frightfully pretty girl with gold hair. If you slew the old bean round at an angle of about forty-five, Bevan, old top, you can see her. Take a look. He won't see you. He's got his back to us." "Do you call her pretty?" asked Alice disparagingly. "Now that I take a good look, precious," replied Reggie with alacrity, "no! Absolutely not! Not my style at all!" His wife crumbled bread. "I think she must know you, Reggie dear," she said softly. "She's waving to you." "She's waving to _me_," said George, bringing back the sunshine to Reggie's life, and causing the latter's face to lose its hunted look. "I know her very well. Her name's Dore. Billie Dore." "Old man," said Reggie, "be a good fellow and slide over to their table and cover our retreat. I know there's nothing to be afraid of really, but I simply can't face the old boy." "And break the news to him that I've gone, Mr. Bevan," added Alice. "Very well, I'll say good-bye, then." "Good-bye, Mr. Bevan, and thank you ever so much." Reggie shook George's hand warmly. "Good-bye, Bevan old thing, you're a ripper. I can't tell you how bucked up I am at the sportsmanlike way you've rallied round. I'll do the same for you one of these days. Just hold the old boy in play for a minute or two while we leg it. And, if he wants us, tell him our address till further notice is Paris. What ho! What ho! What ho! Toodle-oo, laddie, toodle-oo!" George threaded his way across the room. Billie Dore welcomed him with a friendly smile. The earl, who had turned to observe his progress, seemed less delighted to see him. His weather-beaten face wore an almost furtive look. He reminded George of a schoolboy who has been caught in some breach of the law. "Fancy seeing you here, George!" said Billie. "We're always meeting, aren't we? How did you come to separate yourself from the pigs and chickens? I thought you were never going to leave them." "I had to run up on business," explained George. "How are you, Lord Marshmoreton?" The earl nodded briefly. "So you're on to him, too?" said Billie. "When did you get wise?" "Lord Marshmoreton was kind enough to call on me the other morning and drop the incognito." "Isn't dadda the foxiest old thing!" said Billie delightedly. "Imagine him standing there that day in the garden, kidding us along like that! I tell you, when they brought me his card last night after the first act and I went down to take a slant at this Lord Marshmoreton and found dadda hanging round the stage door, you could have knocked me over with a whisk-broom." "I have not stood at the stage-door for twenty-five years," said Lord Marshmoreton sadly. "Now, it's no use your pulling that Henry W. Methuselah stuff," said Billie affectionately. "You can't get away with it. Anyone can see you're just a kid. Can't they, George?" She indicated the blushing earl with a wave of the hand. "Isn't dadda the youngest thing that ever happened?" "Exactly what I told him myself." Lord Marshmoreton giggled. There is no other verb that describes the sound that proceeded from him. "I feel young," he admitted. "I wish some of the juveniles in the shows I've been in," said Billie, "were as young as you. It's getting so nowadays that one's thankful if a juvenile has teeth." She glanced across the room. "Your pals are walking out on you, George. The people you were lunching with," she explained. "They're leaving." "That's all right. I said good-bye to them." He looked at Lord Marshmoreton. It seemed a suitable opportunity to break the news. "I was lunching with Mr. and Mrs. Byng," he said. Nothing appeared to stir beneath Lord Marshmoreton's tanned forehead. "Reggie Byng and his wife, Lord Marshmoreton," added George. This time he secured the earl's interest. Lord Marshmoreton started. "What!" "They are just off to Paris," said George. "Reggie Byng is not married!" "Married this morning. I was best man." "Busy little creature!" interjected Billie. "But--but--!" "You know his wife," said George casually. "She was a Miss Faraday. I think she was your secretary." It would have been impossible to deny that Lord Marshmoreton showed emotion. His mouth opened, and he clutched the tablecloth. But just what the emotion was George was unable to say till, with a sigh that seemed to come from his innermost being, the other exclaimed "Thank Heaven!" George was surprised. "You're glad?" "Of course I'm glad!" "It's a pity they didn't know how you were going to feel. It would have saved them a lot of anxiety. I rather gathered they supposed that the shock was apt to darken your whole life." "That girl," said Lord Marshmoreton vehemently, "was driving me crazy. Always bothering me to come and work on that damned family history. Never gave me a moment's peace . . ." "I liked her," said George. "Nice enough girl," admitted his lordship grudgingly. "But a damned nuisance about the house; always at me to go on with the family history. As if there weren't better things to do with one's time than writing all day about my infernal fools of ancestors!" "Isn't dadda fractious today?" said Billie reprovingly, giving the Earl's hand a pat. "Quit knocking your ancestors! You're very lucky to have ancestors. I wish I had. The Dore family seems to go back about as far as the presidency of Willard Filmore, and then it kind of gets discouraged and quite cold. Gee! I'd like to feel that my great-great-great-grandmother had helped Queen Elizabeth with the rent. I'm strong for the fine old stately families of England." "Stately old fiddlesticks!" snapped the earl. "Did you see his eyes flash then, George? That's what they call aristocratic rage. It's the fine old spirit of the Marshmoretons boiling over." "I noticed it," said George. "Just like lightning." "It's no use trying to fool us, dadda," said Billie. "You know just as well as I do that it makes you feel good to think that, every time you cut yourself with your safety-razor, you bleed blue!" "A lot of silly nonsense!" grumbled the earl. "What is?" "This foolery of titles and aristocracy. Silly fetish-worship! One man's as good as another. . . ." "This is the spirit of '76!" said George approvingly. "Regular I.W.W. stuff," agreed Billie. "Shake hands the President of the Bolsheviki!" Lord Marshmoreton ignored the interruption. There was a strange look in his eyes. It was evident to George, watching him with close interest, that here was a revelation of the man's soul; that thoughts, locked away for years in the other's bosom were crying for utterance. "Damned silly nonsense! When I was a boy, I wanted to be an engine-driver. When I was a young man, I was a Socialist and hadn't any idea except to work for my living and make a name for myself. I was going to the colonies. Canada. The fruit farm was actually bought. Bought and paid for!" He brooded a moment on that long-lost fruit farm. "My father was a younger son. And then my uncle must go and break his neck hunting, and the baby, poor little chap, got croup or something . . . And there I was, saddled with the title, and all my plans gone up in smoke . . . Silly nonsense! Silly nonsense!" He bit the end of a cigar. "And you can't stand up against it," he went on ruefully. "It saps you. It's like some damned drug. I fought against it as long as I could, but it was no use. I'm as big a snob as any of them now. I'm afraid to do what I want to do. Always thinking of the family dignity. I haven't taken a free step for twenty-five years." George and Billie exchanged glances. Each had the uncomfortable feeling that they were eavesdropping and hearing things not meant to be heard. George rose. "I must be getting along now," he said. "I've one or two things to do. Glad to have seen you again, Billie. Is the show going all right?" "Fine. Making money for you right along." "Good-bye, Lord Marshmoreton." The earl nodded without speaking. It was not often now that he rebelled even in thoughts against the lot which fate had thrust upon him, and never in his life before had he done so in words. He was still in the grip of the strange discontent which had come upon him so abruptly. There was a silence after George had gone. "I'm glad we met George," said Billie. "He's a good boy." She spoke soberly. She was conscious of a curious feeling of affection for the sturdy, weather-tanned little man opposite her. The glimpse she had been given of his inner self had somehow made him come alive for her. "He wants to marry my daughter," said Lord Marshmoreton. A few moments before, Billie would undoubtedly have replied to such a statement with some jocular remark expressing disbelief that the earl could have a daughter old enough to be married. But now she felt oddly serious and unlike her usual flippant self. "Oh?" was all she could find to say. "She wants to marry him." Not for years had Billie Dore felt embarrassed, but she felt so now. She judged herself unworthy to be the recipient of these very private confidences. "Oh?" she said again. "He's a good fellow. I like him. I liked him the moment we met. He knew it, too. And I knew he liked me." A group of men and girls from a neighbouring table passed on their way to the door. One of the girls nodded to Billie. She returned the nod absently. The party moved on. Billie frowned down at the tablecloth and drew a pattern on it with a fork. "Why don't you let George marry your daughter, Lord Marshmoreton?" The earl drew at his cigar in silence. "I know it's not my business," said Billie apologetically, interpreting the silence as a rebuff. "Because I'm the Earl of Marshmoreton." "I see." "No you don't," snapped the earl. "You think I mean by that that I think your friend isn't good enough to marry my daughter. You think that I'm an incurable snob. And I've no doubt he thinks so, too, though I took the trouble to explain my attitude to him when we last met. You're wrong. It isn't that at all. When I say 'I'm the Earl of Marshmoreton', I mean that I'm a poor spineless fool who's afraid to do the right thing because he daren't go in the teeth of the family." "I don't understand. What have your family got to do with it?" "They'd worry the life out of me. I wish you could meet my sister Caroline! That's what they've got to do with it. Girls in my daughter's unfortunate position have got to marry position or money." "Well, I don't know about position, but when it comes to money--why, George is the fellow that made the dollar-bill famous. He and Rockefeller have got all there is, except the little bit they have let Andy Carnegie have for car-fare." "What do you mean? He told me he worked for a living." Billie was becoming herself again. Embarrassment had fled. "If you call it work. He's a composer." "I know. Writes tunes and things." Billie regarded him compassionately. "And I suppose, living out in the woods the way that you do that you haven't a notion that they pay him for it." "Pay him? Yes, but how much? Composers were not rich men in my day." "I wish you wouldn't talk of 'your day' as if you telling the boys down at the corner store about the good times they all had before the Flood. You're one of the Younger Set and don't let me have to tell you again. Say, listen! You know that show you saw last night. The one where I was supported by a few underlings. Well, George wrote the music for that." "I know. He told me so." "Well, did he tell you that he draws three per cent of the gross receipts? You saw the house we had last night. It was a fair average house. We are playing to over fourteen thousand dollars a week. George's little bit of that is--I can't do it in my head, but it's a round four hundred dollars. That's eighty pounds of your money. And did he tell you that this same show ran over a year in New York to big business all the time, and that there are three companies on the road now? And did he mention that this is the ninth show he's done, and that seven of the others were just as big hits as this one? And did he remark in passing that he gets royalties on every copy of his music that's sold, and that at least ten of his things have sold over half a million? No, he didn't, because he isn't the sort of fellow who stands around blowing about his income. But you know it now." "Why, he's a rich man!" "I don't know what you call rich, but, keeping on the safe side, I should say that George pulls down in a good year, during the season--around five thousand dollars a week." Lord Marshmoreton was frankly staggered. "A thousand pounds a week! I had no idea!" "I thought you hadn't. And, while I'm boosting George, let me tell you another thing. He's one of the whitest men that ever happened. I know him. You can take it from me, if there's anything rotten in a fellow, the show-business will bring it out, and it hasn't come out in George yet, so I guess it isn't there. George is all right!" "He has at least an excellent advocate." "Oh, I'm strong for George. I wish there were more like him . . . Well, if you think I've butted in on your private affairs sufficiently, I suppose I ought to be moving. We've a rehearsal this afternoon." "Let it go!" said Lord Marshmoreton boyishly. "Yes, and how quick do you think they would let me go, if I did? I'm an honest working-girl, and I can't afford to lose jobs." Lord Marshmoreton fiddled with his cigar-butt. "I could offer you an alternative position, if you cared to accept it." Billie looked at him keenly. Other men in similar circumstances had made much the same remark to her. She was conscious of feeling a little disappointed in her new friend. "Well?" she said dryly. "Shoot." "You gathered, no doubt, from Mr. Bevan's conversation, that my secretary has left me and run away and got married? Would you like to take her place?" It was not easy to disconcert Billie Dore, but she was taken aback. She had been expecting something different. "You're a shriek, dadda!" "I'm perfectly serious." "Can you see me at a castle?" "I can see you perfectly." Lord Marshmoreton's rather formal manner left him. "Do please accept, my dear child. I've got to finish this damned family history some time or other. The family expect me to. Only yesterday my sister Caroline got me in a corner and bored me for half an hour about it. I simply can't face the prospect of getting another Alice Faraday from an agency. Charming girl, charming girl, of course, but . . . but . . . well, I'll be damned if I do it, and that's the long and short of it!" Billie bubbled over with laughter. "Of all the impulsive kids!" she gurgled. "I never met anyone like you, dadda! You don't even know that I can use a typewriter." "I do. Mr. Bevan told me you were an excellent stenographer." "So George has been boosting me, too, has he?" She mused. "I must say, I'd love to come. That old place got me when I saw it that day." "That's settled, then," said Lord Marshmoreton masterfully. "Go to the theatre and tell them--tell whatever is usual in these cases. And then go home and pack, and meet me at Waterloo at six o'clock. The train leaves at six-fifteen." "Return of the wanderer, accompanied by dizzy blonde! You've certainly got it all fixed, haven't you! Do you think the family will stand for me?" "Damn the family!" said Lord Marshmoreton, stoutly. "There's one thing," said Billie complacently, eyeing her reflection in the mirror of her vanity-case, "I may glitter in the fighting-top, but it is genuine. When I was a kid, I was a regular little tow-head." "I never supposed for a moment that it was anything but genuine." "Then you've got a fine, unsuspicious nature, dadda, and I admire you for it." "Six o'clock at Waterloo," said the earl. "I will be waiting for you." Billie regarded him with affectionate admiration. "Boys will be boys," she said. "All right. I'll be there." CHAPTER 22. "Young blighted Albert," said Keggs the butler, shifting his weight so that it distributed itself more comfortably over the creaking chair in which he reclined, "let this be a lesson to you, young feller me lad." The day was a week after Lord Marshmoreton's visit to London, the hour six o'clock. The housekeeper's room, in which the upper servants took their meals, had emptied. Of the gay company which had just finished dinner only Keggs remained, placidly digesting. Albert, whose duty it was to wait on the upper servants, was moving to and fro, morosely collecting the plates and glasses. The boy was in no happy frame of mind. Throughout dinner the conversation at table had dealt almost exclusively with the now celebrated elopement of Reggie Byng and his bride, and few subjects could have made more painful listening to Albert. "What's been the result and what I might call the upshot," said Keggs, continuing his homily, "of all your making yourself so busy and thrusting of yourself forward and meddling in the affairs of your elders and betters? The upshot and issue of it 'as been that you are out five shillings and nothing to show for it. Five shillings what you might have spent on some good book and improved your mind! And goodness knows it wants all the improving it can get, for of all the worthless, idle little messers it's ever been my misfortune to have dealings with, you are the champion. Be careful of them plates, young man, and don't breathe so hard. You 'aven't got hasthma or something, 'ave you?" "I can't breathe now!" complained the stricken child. "Not like a grampus you can't, and don't you forget it." Keggs wagged his head reprovingly. "Well, so your Reggie Byng's gone and eloped, has he! That ought to teach you to be more careful another time 'ow you go gambling and plunging into sweepstakes. The idea of a child of your age 'aving the audacity to thrust 'isself forward like that!" "Don't call him my Reggie Byng! I didn't draw 'im!" "There's no need to go into all that again, young feller. You accepted 'im freely and without prejudice when the fair exchange was suggested, so for all practical intents and purposes he is your Reggie Byng. I 'ope you're going to send him a wedding-present." "Well, you ain't any better off than me, with all your 'ighway robbery!" "My what!" "You 'eard what I said." "Well, don't let me 'ear it again. The idea! If you 'ad any objections to parting with that ticket, you should have stated them clearly at the time. And what do you mean by saying I ain't any better off than you are?" "I 'ave my reasons." "You think you 'ave, which is a very different thing. I suppose you imagine that you've put a stopper on a certain little affair by surreptitiously destroying letters entrusted to you." "I never!" exclaimed Albert with a convulsive start that nearly sent eleven plates dashing to destruction. "'Ow many times have I got to tell you to be careful of them plates?" said Keggs sternly. "Who do you think you are--a juggler on the 'Alls, 'urling them about like that? Yes, I know all about that letter. You thought you was very clever, I've no doubt. But let me tell you, young blighted Albert, that only the other evening 'er ladyship and Mr. Bevan 'ad a long and extended interview in spite of all your hefforts. I saw through your little game, and I proceeded and went and arranged the meeting." In spite of himself Albert was awed. He was oppressed by the sense of struggling with a superior intellect. "Yes, you did!" he managed to say with the proper note of incredulity, but in his heart he was not incredulous. Dimly, Albert had begun to perceive that years must elapse before he could become capable of matching himself in battles of wits with this master-strategist. "Yes, I certainly did!" said Keggs. "I don't know what 'appened at the interview--not being present in person. But I've no doubt that everything proceeded satisfactorily." "And a fat lot of good that's going to do you, when 'e ain't allowed to come inside the 'ouse!" A bland smile irradiated the butler's moon-like face. "If by 'e you're alloodin' to Mr. Bevan, young blighted Albert, let me tell you that it won't be long before 'e becomes a regular duly invited guest at the castle!" "A lot of chance!" "Would you care to 'ave another five shillings even money on it?" Albert recoiled. He had had enough of speculation where the butler was concerned. Where that schemer was allowed to get within reach of it, hard cash melted away. "What are you going to do?" "Never you mind what I'm going to do. I 'ave my methods. All I 'ave to say to you is that tomorrow or the day after Mr. Bevan will be seated in our dining-'all with 'is feet under our table, replying according to his personal taste and preference, when I ask 'im if 'e'll 'ave 'ock or sherry. Brush all them crumbs carefully off the tablecloth, young blighted Albert--don't shuffle your feet--breathe softly through your nose--and close the door be'ind you when you've finished!" "Oh, go and eat cake!" said Albert bitterly. But he said it to his immortal soul, not aloud. The lad's spirit was broken. Keggs, the processes of digestion completed, presented himself before Lord Belpher in the billiard-room. Percy was alone. The house-party, so numerous on the night of the ball and on his birthday, had melted down now to reasonable proportions. The second and third cousins had retired, flushed and gratified, to obscure dens from which they had emerged, and the castle housed only the more prominent members of the family, always harder to dislodge than the small fry. The Bishop still remained, and the Colonel. Besides these, there were perhaps half a dozen more of the closer relations: to Lord Belpher's way of thinking, half a dozen too many. He was not fond of his family. "Might I have a word with your lordship?" "What is it, Keggs?" Keggs was a self-possessed man, but he found it a little hard to begin. Then he remembered that once in the misty past he had seen Lord Belpher spanked for stealing jam, he himself having acted on that occasion as prosecuting attorney; and the memory nerved him. "I earnestly 'ope that your lordship will not think that I am taking a liberty. I 'ave been in his lordship your father's service many years now, and the family honour is, if I may be pardoned for saying so, extremely near my 'eart. I 'ave known your lordship since you were a mere boy, and . . ." Lord Belpher had listened with growing impatience to this preamble. His temper was seldom at its best these days, and the rolling periods annoyed him. "Yes, yes, of course," he said. "What is it?" Keggs was himself now. In his opening remarks he had simply been, as it were, winding up. He was now prepared to begin. "Your lordship will recall inquiring of me on the night of the ball as to the bona fides of one of the temporary waiters? The one that stated that 'e was the cousin of young bli--of the boy Albert, the page? I have been making inquiries, your lordship, and I regret to say I find that the man was a impostor. He informed me that 'e was Albert's cousin, but Albert now informs me that 'e 'as no cousin in America. I am extremely sorry this should have occurred, your lordship, and I 'ope you will attribute it to the bustle and haste inseparable from duties as mine on such a occasion." "I know the fellow was an impostor. He was probably after the spoons!" Keggs coughed. "If I might be allowed to take a further liberty, your lordship, might I suggest that I am aware of the man's identity and of his motive for visiting the castle." He waited a little apprehensively. This was the crucial point in the interview. If Lord Belpher did not now freeze him with a glance and order him from the room, the danger would be past, and he could speak freely. His light blue eyes were expressionless as they met Percy's, but inwardly he was feeling much the same sensation as he was wont to experience when the family was in town and he had managed to slip off to Kempton Park or some other race-course and put some of his savings on a horse. As he felt when the racing steeds thundered down the straight, so did he feel now. Astonishment showed in Lord Belpher's round face. Just as it was about to be succeeded by indignation, the butler spoke again. "I am aware, your lordship, that it is not my place to offer suggestions as to the private and intimate affairs of the family I 'ave the honour to serve, but, if your lordship would consent to overlook the liberty, I think I could be of 'elp and assistance in a matter which is causing annoyance and unpleasantness to all." He invigorated himself with another dip into the waters of memory. Yes. The young man before him might be Lord Belpher, son of his employer and heir to all these great estates, but once he had seen him spanked. Perhaps Percy also remembered this. Perhaps he merely felt that Keggs was a faithful old servant and, as such, entitled to thrust himself into the family affairs. Whatever his reasons, he now definitely lowered the barrier. "Well," he said, with a glance at the door to make sure that there were no witnesses to an act of which the aristocrat in him disapproved, "go on!" Keggs breathed freely. The danger-point was past. "'Aving a natural interest, your lordship," he said, "we of the Servants' 'All generally manage to become respectfully aware of whatever 'appens to be transpirin' above stairs. May I say that I became acquainted at an early stage with the trouble which your lordship is unfortunately 'aving with a certain party?" Lord Belpher, although his whole being revolted against what practically amounted to hobnobbing with a butler, perceived that he had committed himself to the discussion. It revolted him to think that these delicate family secrets were the subject of conversation in menial circles, but it was too late to do anything now. And such was the whole-heartedness with which he had declared war upon George Bevan that, at this stage in the proceedings, his chief emotion was a hope that Keggs might have something sensible to suggest. "I think, begging your lordship's pardon for making the remark, that you are acting injudicious. I 'ave been in service a great number of years, startin' as steward's room boy and rising to my present position, and I may say I 'ave 'ad experience during those years of several cases where the daughter or son of the 'ouse contemplated a misalliance, and all but one of the cases ended disastrously, your lordship, on account of the family trying opposition. It is my experience that opposition in matters of the 'eart is useless, feedin', as it, so to speak, does the flame. Young people, your lordship, if I may be pardoned for employing the expression in the present case, are naturally romantic and if you keep 'em away from a thing they sit and pity themselves and want it all the more. And in the end you may be sure they get it. There's no way of stoppin' them. I was not on sufficiently easy terms with the late Lord Worlingham to give 'im the benefit of my experience on the occasion when the Honourable Aubrey Pershore fell in love with the young person at the Gaiety Theatre. Otherwise I could 'ave told 'im he was not acting judicious. His lordship opposed the match in every way, and the young couple ran off and got married at a registrar's. It was the same when a young man who was tutor to 'er ladyship's brother attracted Lady Evelyn Walls, the only daughter of the Earl of Ackleton. In fact, your lordship, the only entanglement of the kind that came to a satisfactory conclusion in the whole of my personal experience was the affair of Lady Catherine Duseby, Lord Bridgefield's daughter, who injudiciously became infatuated with a roller-skating instructor." Lord Belpher had ceased to feel distantly superior to his companion. The butler's powerful personality hypnotized him. Long ere the harangue was ended, he was as a little child drinking in the utterances of a master. He bent forward eagerly. Keggs had broken off his remarks at the most interesting point. "What happened?" inquired Percy. "The young man," proceeded Keggs, "was a young man of considerable personal attractions, 'aving large brown eyes and a athletic lissome figure, brought about by roller-skating. It was no wonder, in the opinion of the Servants' 'All, that 'er ladyship should have found 'erself fascinated by him, particularly as I myself 'ad 'eard her observe at a full luncheon-table that roller-skating was in her opinion the only thing except her toy Pomeranian that made life worth living. But when she announced that she had become engaged to this young man, there was the greatest consternation. I was not, of course, privileged to be a participant at the many councils and discussions that ensued and took place, but I was aware that such transpired with great frequency. Eventually 'is lordship took the shrewd step of assuming acquiescence and inviting the young man to visit us in Scotland. And within ten days of his arrival, your lordship, the match was broken off. He went back to 'is roller-skating, and 'er ladyship took up visiting the poor and eventually contracted an altogether suitable alliance by marrying Lord Ronald Spofforth, the second son of his Grace the Duke of Gorbals and Strathbungo." "How did it happen?" "Seein' the young man in the surroundings of 'er own 'ome, 'er ladyship soon began to see that she had taken too romantic a view of 'im previous, your lordship. 'E was one of the lower middle class, what is sometimes termed the bourjoisy, and 'is 'abits were not the 'abits of the class to which 'er ladyship belonged. 'E 'ad nothing in common with the rest of the 'ouse-party, and was injudicious in 'is choice of forks. The very first night at dinner 'e took a steel knife to the ontray, and I see 'er ladyship look at him very sharp, as much as to say that scales had fallen from 'er eyes. It didn't take 'er long after that to become convinced that 'er 'eart 'ad led 'er astray." "Then you think--?" "It is not for me to presume to offer anything but the most respectful advice, your lordship, but I should most certainly advocate a similar procedure in the present instance." Lord Belpher reflected. Recent events had brought home to him the magnitude of the task he had assumed when he had appointed himself the watcher of his sister's movements. The affair of the curate and the village blacksmith had shaken him both physically and spiritually. His feet were still sore, and his confidence in himself had waned considerably. The thought of having to continue his espionage indefinitely was not a pleasant one. How much simpler and more effective it would be to adopt the suggestion which had been offered to him. "--I'm not sure you aren't right, Keggs." "Thank you, your lordship. I feel convinced of it." "I will speak to my father tonight." "Very good, your lordship. I am glad to have been of service." "Young blighted Albert," said Keggs crisply, shortly after breakfast on the following morning, "you're to take this note to Mr. Bevan at the cottage down by Platt's farm, and you're to deliver it without playing any of your monkey-tricks, and you're to wait for an answer, and you're to bring that answer back to me, too, and to Lord Marshmoreton. And I may tell you, to save you the trouble of opening it with steam from the kitchen kettle, that I 'ave already done so. It's an invitation to dine with us tonight. So now you know. Look slippy!" Albert capitulated. For the first time in his life he felt humble. He perceived how misguided he had been ever to suppose that he could pit his pigmy wits against this smooth-faced worker of wonders. "Crikey!" he ejaculated. It was all that he could say. "And there's one more thing, young feller me lad," added Keggs earnestly, "don't you ever grow up to be such a fat'ead as our friend Percy. Don't forget I warned you." CHAPTER 23. Life is like some crazy machine that is always going either too slow or too fast. From the cradle to the grave we alternate between the Sargasso Sea and the rapids--forever either becalmed or storm-tossed. It seemed to Maud, as she looked across the dinner-table in order to make sure for the twentieth time that it really was George Bevan who sat opposite her, that, after months in which nothing whatever had happened, she was now living through a period when everything was happening at once. Life, from being a broken-down machine, had suddenly begun to race. To the orderly routine that stretched back to the time when she had been hurried home in disgrace from Wales there had succeeded a mad whirl of events, to which the miracle of tonight had come as a fitting climax. She had not begun to dress for dinner till somewhat late, and had consequently entered the drawing-room just as Keggs was announcing that the meal was ready. She had received her first shock when the love-sick Plummer, emerging from a mixed crowd of relatives and friends, had informed her that he was to take her in. She had not expected Plummer to be there, though he lived in the neighbourhood. Plummer, at their last meeting, had stated his intention of going abroad for a bit to mend his bruised heart: and it was a little disconcerting to a sensitive girl to find her victim popping up again like this. She did not know that, as far as Plummer was concerned, the whole affair was to be considered opened again. To Plummer, analysing the girl's motives in refusing him, there had come the idea that there was Another, and that this other must be Reggie Byng. From the first he had always looked upon Reggie as his worst rival. And now Reggie had bolted with the Faraday girl, leaving Maud in excellent condition, so it seemed to Plummer, to console herself with a worthier man. Plummer knew all about the Rebound and the part it plays in the affairs of the heart. His own breach-of-promise case two years earlier had been entirely due to the fact that the refusal of the youngest Devenish girl to marry him had caused him to rebound into the dangerous society of the second girl from the O.P. end of the first row in the "Summertime is Kissing-time" number in the Alhambra revue. He had come to the castle tonight gloomy, but not without hope. Maud's second shock eclipsed the first entirely. No notification had been given to her either by her father or by Percy of the proposed extension of the hand of hospitality to George, and the sight of him standing there talking to her aunt Caroline made her momentarily dizzy. Life, which for several days had had all the properties now of a dream, now of a nightmare, became more unreal than ever. She could conceive no explanation of George's presence. He could not be there--that was all there was to it; yet there undoubtedly he was. Her manner, as she accompanied Plummer down the stairs, took on such a dazed sweetness that her escort felt that in coming there that night he had done the wisest act of a lifetime studded but sparsely with wise acts. It seemed to Plummer that this girl had softened towards him. Certainly something had changed her. He could not know that she was merely wondering if she was awake. George, meanwhile, across the table, was also having a little difficulty in adjusting his faculties to the progress of events. He had given up trying to imagine why he had been invited to this dinner, and was now endeavouring to find some theory which would square with the fact of Billie Dore being at the castle. At precisely this hour Billie, by rights, should have been putting the finishing touches on her make-up in a second-floor dressing-room at the Regal. Yet there she sat, very much at her ease in this aristocratic company, so quietly and unobtrusively dressed in some black stuff that at first he had scarcely recognized her. She was talking to the Bishop. . . The voice of Keggs at his elbow broke in on his reverie. "Sherry or 'ock, sir?" George could not have explained why this reminder of the butler's presence should have made him feel better, but it did. There was something solid and tranquilizing about Keggs. He had noticed it before. For the first time the sensation of having been smitten over the head with some blunt instrument began to abate. It was as if Keggs by the mere intonation of his voice had said, "All this no doubt seems very strange and unusual to you, but feel no alarm! I am here!" George began to sit up and take notice. A cloud seemed to have cleared from his brain. He found himself looking on his fellow-diners as individuals rather than as a confused mass. The prophet Daniel, after the initial embarrassment of finding himself in the society of the lions had passed away, must have experienced a somewhat similar sensation. He began to sort these people out and label them. There had been introductions in the drawing-room, but they had left him with a bewildered sense of having heard somebody recite a page from Burke's peerage. Not since that day in the free library in London, when he had dived into that fascinating volume in order to discover Maud's identity, had he undergone such a rain of titles. He now took stock, to ascertain how many of these people he could identify. The stock-taking was an absolute failure. Of all those present the only individuals he could swear to were his own personal little playmates with whom he had sported in other surroundings. There was Lord Belpher, for instance, eyeing him with a hostility that could hardly be called veiled. There was Lord Marshmoreton at the head of the table, listening glumly to the conversation of a stout woman with a pearl necklace, but who was that woman? Was it Lady Jane Allenby or Lady Edith Wade-Beverly or Lady Patricia Fowles? And who, above all, was the pie-faced fellow with the moustache talking to Maud? He sought assistance from the girl he had taken in to dinner. She appeared, as far as he could ascertain from a short acquaintance, to be an amiable little thing. She was small and young and fluffy, and he had caught enough of her name at the moment of introduction to gather that she was plain "Miss" Something--a fact which seemed to him to draw them together. "I wish you would tell me who some of these people are," he said, as she turned from talking to the man on her other-side. "Who is the man over there?" "Which man?" "The one talking to Lady Maud. The fellow whose face ought to be shuffled and dealt again." "That's my brother." That held George during the soup. "I'm sorry about your brother," he said rallying with the fish. "That's very sweet of you." "It was the light that deceived me. Now that I look again, I see that his face has great charm." The girl giggled. George began to feel better. "Who are some of the others? I didn't get your name, for instance. They shot it at me so quick that it had whizzed by before I could catch it." "My name is Plummer." George was electrified. He looked across the table with more vivid interest. The amorous Plummer had been just a Voice to him till now. It was exciting to see him in the flesh. "And who are the rest of them?" "They are all members of the family. I thought you knew them." "I know Lord Marshmoreton. And Lady Maud. And, of course, Lord Belpher." He caught Percy's eye as it surveyed him coldly from the other side of the table, and nodded cheerfully. "Great pal of mine, Lord Belpher." The fluffy Miss Plummer twisted her pretty face into a grimace of disapproval. "I don't like Percy." "No!" "I think he's conceited." "Surely not? What could he have to be conceited about?" "He's stiff." "Yes, of course, that's how he strikes people at first. The first time I met him, I thought he was an awful stiff. But you should see him in his moments of relaxation. He's one of those fellows you have to get to know. He grows on you." "Yes, but look at that affair with the policeman in London. Everybody in the county is talking about it." "Young blood!" sighed George. "Young blood! Of course, Percy is wild." "He must have been intoxicated." "Oh, undoubtedly," said George. Miss Plummer glanced across the table. "Do look at Edwin!" "Which is Edwin?" "My brother, I mean. Look at the way he keeps staring at Maud. Edwin's awfully in love with Maud," she rattled on with engaging frankness. "At least, he thinks he is. He's been in love with a different girl every season since I came out. And now that Reggie Byng has gone and married Alice Faraday, he thinks he has a chance. You heard about that, I suppose?" "Yes, I did hear something about it." "Of course, Edwin's wasting his time, really. I happen to know"--Miss Plummer sank her voice to a whisper--"I happen to know that Maud's awfully in love with some man she met in Wales last year, but the family won't hear of it." "Families are like that," agreed George. "Nobody knows who he is, but everybody in the county knows all about it. Those things get about, you know. Of course, it's out of the question. Maud will have to marry somebody awfully rich or with a title. Her family's one of the oldest in England, you know." "So I understand." "It isn't as if she were the daughter of Lord Peebles, somebody like that." "Why Lord Peebles?" "Well, what I mean to say is," said Miss Plummer, with a silvery echo of Reggie Byng, "he made his money in whisky." "That's better than spending it that way," argued George. Miss Plummer looked puzzled. "I see what you mean," she said a little vaguely. "Lord Marshmoreton is so different." "Haughty nobleman stuff, eh?" "Yes." "So you think this mysterious man in Wales hasn't a chance?" "Not unless he and Maud elope like Reggie Byng and Alice. Wasn't that exciting? Who would ever have suspected Reggie had the dash to do a thing like that? Lord Marshmoreton's new secretary is very pretty, don't you think?" "Which is she?" "The girl in black with the golden hair." "Is she Lord Marshmoreton's secretary?" "Yes. She's an American girl. I think she's much nicer than Alice Faraday. I was talking to her before dinner. Her name is Dore. Her father was a captain in the American army, who died without leaving her a penny. He was the younger son of a very distinguished family, but his family disowned him because he married against their wishes." "Something ought to be done to stop these families," said George. "They're always up to something." "So Miss Dore had to go out and earn her own living. It must have been awful for her, mustn't it, having to give up society." "Did she give up society?" "Oh, yes. She used to go everywhere in New York before her father died. I think American girls are wonderful. They have so much enterprise." George at the moment was thinking that it was in imagination that they excelled. "I wish I could go out and earn my living," said Miss Plummer. "But the family won't dream of it." "The family again!" said George sympathetically. "They're a perfect curse." "I want to go on the stage. Are you fond of the theatre?" "Fairly." "I love it. Have you seen Hubert Broadleigh in ''Twas Once in Spring'?" "I'm afraid I haven't." "He's wonderful. Have you seen Cynthia Dane in 'A Woman's No'?" "I missed that one too." "Perhaps you prefer musical pieces? I saw an awfully good musical comedy before I left town. It's called 'Follow the Girl'. It's at the Regal Theatre. Have you seen it?" "I wrote it." "You--what!" "That is to say, I wrote the music." "But the music's lovely," gasped little Miss Plummer, as if the fact made his claim ridiculous. "I've been humming it ever since." "I can't help that. I still stick to it that I wrote it." "You aren't George Bevan!" "I am!" "But--" Miss Plummer's voice almost failed here--"But I've been dancing to your music for years! I've got about fifty of your records on the Victrola at home." George blushed. However successful a man may be he can never get used to Fame at close range. "Why, that tricky thing--you know, in the second act--is the darlingest thing I ever heard. I'm mad about it." "Do you mean the one that goes lumty-lumty-tum, tumty-tumty-tum?" "No the one that goes ta-rumty-tum-tum, ta-rumty-tum. You know! The one about Granny dancing the shimmy." "I'm not responsible for the words, you know," urged George hastily. "Those are wished on me by the lyrist." "I think the words are splendid. Although poor popper thinks its improper, Granny's always doing it and nobody can stop her! I loved it." Miss Plummer leaned forward excitedly. She was an impulsive girl. "Lady Caroline." Conversation stopped. Lady Caroline turned. "Yes, Millie?" "Did you know that Mr. Bevan was _the_ Mr. Bevan?" Everybody was listening now. George huddled pinkly in his chair. He had not foreseen this bally-hooing. Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego combined had never felt a tithe of the warmth that consumed him. He was essentially a modest young man. "_The_ Mr. Bevan?" echoed Lady Caroline coldly. It was painful to her to have to recognize George's existence on the same planet as herself. To admire him, as Miss Plummer apparently expected her to do, was a loathsome task. She cast one glance, fresh from the refrigerator, at the shrinking George, and elevated her aristocratic eyebrows. Miss Plummer was not damped. She was at the hero-worshipping age, and George shared with the Messrs. Fairbanks, Francis X. Bushman, and one or two tennis champions an imposing pedestal in her Hall of Fame. "You know! George Bevan, who wrote the music of 'Follow the Girl'." Lady Caroline showed no signs of thawing. She had not heard of 'Follow the Girl'. Her attitude suggested that, while she admitted the possibility of George having disgraced himself in the manner indicated, it was nothing to her. "And all those other things," pursued Miss Plummer indefatigably. "You must have heard his music on the Victrola." "Why, of course!" It was not Lady Caroline who spoke, but a man further down the table. He spoke with enthusiasm. "Of course, by Jove!" he said. "The Schenectady Shimmy, by Jove, and all that! Ripping!" Everybody seemed pleased and interested. Everybody, that is to say, except Lady Caroline and Lord Belpher. Percy was feeling that he had been tricked. He cursed the imbecility of Keggs in suggesting that this man should be invited to dinner. Everything had gone wrong. George was an undoubted success. The majority of the company were solid for him. As far as exposing his unworthiness in the eyes of Maud was concerned, the dinner had been a ghastly failure. Much better to have left him to lurk in his infernal cottage. Lord Belpher drained his glass moodily. He was seriously upset. But his discomfort at that moment was as nothing to the agony which rent his tortured soul a moment later. Lord Marshmoreton, who had been listening with growing excitement to the chorus of approval, rose from his seat. He cleared his throat. It was plain that Lord Marshmoreton had something on his mind. "Er. . . ." he said. The clatter of conversation ceased once more--stunned, as it always is at dinner parties when one of the gathering is seen to have assumed an upright position. Lord Marshmoreton cleared his throat again. His tanned face had taken on a deeper hue, and there was a look in his eyes which seemed to suggest that he was defying something or somebody. It was the look which Ajax had in his eyes when he defied the lightning, the look which nervous husbands have when they announce their intention of going round the corner to bowl a few games with the boys. One could not say definitely that Lord Marshmoreton looked pop-eyed. On the other hand, one could not assert truthfully that he did not. At any rate, he was manifestly embarrassed. He had made up his mind to a certain course of action on the spur of the moment, taking advantage, as others have done, of the trend of popular enthusiasm: and his state of mind was nervous but resolute, like that of a soldier going over the top. He cleared his throat for the third time, took one swift glance at his sister Caroline, then gazed glassily into the emptiness above her head. "Take this opportunity," he said rapidly, clutching at the table-cloth for support, "take this opportunity of announcing the engagement of my daughter Maud to Mr. Bevan. And," he concluded with a rush, pouring back into his chair, "I should like you all to drink their health!" There was a silence that hurt. It was broken by two sounds, occurring simultaneously in different parts of the room. One was a gasp from Lady Caroline. The other was a crash of glass. For the first time in a long unblemished career Keggs the butler had dropped a tray. CHAPTER 24. Out on the terrace the night was very still. From a steel-blue sky the stars looked down as calmly as they had looked on the night of the ball, when George had waited by the shrubbery listening to the wailing of the music and thinking long thoughts. From the dark meadows by the brook came the cry of a corncrake, its harsh note softened by distance. "What shall we do?" said Maud. She was sitting on the stone seat where Reggie Byng had sat and meditated on his love for Alice Faraday and his unfortunate habit of slicing his approach-shots. To George, as he stood beside her, she was a white blur in the darkness. He could not see her face. "I don't know!" he said frankly. Nor did he. Like Lady Caroline and Lord Belpher and Keggs, the butler, he had been completely overwhelmed by Lord Marshmoreton's dramatic announcement. The situation had come upon him unheralded by any warning, and had found him unequal to it. A choking sound suddenly proceeded from the whiteness that was Maud. In the stillness it sounded like some loud noise. It jarred on George's disturbed nerves. "Please!" "I c-can't help it!" "There's nothing to cry about, really! If we think long enough, we shall find some way out all right. Please don't cry." "I'm not crying!" The choking sound became an unmistakable ripple of mirth. "It's so absurd! Poor father getting up like that in front of everyone! Did you see Aunt Caroline's face?" "It haunts me still," said George. "I shall never forget it. Your brother didn't seem any too pleased, either." Maud stopped laughing. "It's an awful position," she said soberly. "The announcement will be in the Morning Post the day after tomorrow. And then the letters of congratulation will begin to pour in. And after that the presents. And I simply can't see how we can convince them all that there has been a mistake." Another aspect of the matter struck her. "It's so hard on you, too." "Don't think about me," urged George. "Heaven knows I'd give the whole world if we could just let the thing go on, but there's no use discussing impossibilities." He lowered his voice. "There's no use, either, in my pretending that I'm not going to have a pretty bad time. But we won't discuss that. It was my own fault. I came butting in on your life of my own free will, and, whatever happens, it's been worth it to have known you and tried to be of service to you." "You're the best friend I've ever had." "I'm glad you think that." "The best and kindest friend any girl ever had. I wish . . ." She broke off. "Oh, well. . ." There was a silence. In the castle somebody had begun to play the piano. Then a man's voice began to sing. "That's Edwin Plummer," said Maud. "How badly he sings." George laughed. Somehow the intrusion of Plummer had removed the tension. Plummer, whether designedly and as a sombre commentary on the situation or because he was the sort of man who does sing that particular song, was chanting Tosti's "Good-bye". He was giving to its never very cheery notes a wailing melancholy all his own. A dog in the stables began to howl in sympathy, and with the sound came a curious soothing of George's nerves. He might feel broken-hearted later, but for the moment, with this double accompaniment, it was impossible for a man with humour in his soul to dwell on the deeper emotions. Plummer and his canine duettist had brought him to earth. He felt calm and practical. "We'd better talk the whole thing over quietly," he said. "There's certain to be some solution. At the worst you can always go to Lord Marshmoreton and tell him that he spoke without a sufficient grasp of his subject." "I could," said Maud, "but, just at present, I feel as if I'd rather do anything else in the world. You don't realize what it must have cost father to defy Aunt Caroline openly like that. Ever since I was old enough to notice anything, I've seen how she dominated him. It was Aunt Caroline who really caused all this trouble. If it had only been father, I could have coaxed him to let me marry anyone I pleased. I wish, if you possibly can, you would think of some other solution." "I haven't had an opportunity of telling you," said George, "that I called at Belgrave Square, as you asked me to do. I went there directly I had seen Reggie Byng safely married." "Did you see him married?" "I was best man." "Dear old Reggie! I hope he will be happy." "He will. Don't worry about that. Well, as I was saying, I called at Belgrave Square, and found the house shut up. I couldn't get any answer to the bell, though I kept my thumb on it for minutes at a time. I think they must have gone abroad again." "No, it wasn't that. I had a letter from Geoffrey this morning. His uncle died of apoplexy, while they were in Manchester on a business trip." She paused. "He left Geoffrey all his money," she went on. "Every penny." The silence seemed to stretch out interminably. The music from the castle had ceased. The quiet of the summer night was unbroken. To George the stillness had a touch of the sinister. It was the ghastly silence of the end of the world. With a shock he realized that even now he had been permitting himself to hope, futile as he recognized the hope to be. Maud had told him she loved another man. That should have been final. And yet somehow his indomitable sub-conscious self had refused to accept it as final. But this news ended everything. The only obstacle that had held Maud and this man apart was removed. There was nothing to prevent them marrying. George was conscious of a vast depression. The last strand of the rope had parted, and he was drifting alone out into the ocean of desolation. "Oh!" he said, and was surprised that his voice sounded very much the same as usual. Speech was so difficult that it seemed strange that it should show no signs of effort. "That alters everything, doesn't it." "He said in his letter that he wanted me to meet him in London and--talk things over, I suppose." "There's nothing now to prevent your going. I mean, now that your father has made this announcement, you are free to go where you please." "Yes, I suppose I am." There was another silence. "Everything's so difficult," said Maud. "In what way?" "Oh, I don't know." "If you are thinking of me," said George, "please don't. I know exactly what you mean. You are hating the thought of hurting my feelings. I wish you would look on me as having no feelings. All I want is to see you happy. As I said just now, it's enough for me to know that I've helped you. Do be reasonable about it. The fact that our engagement has been officially announced makes no difference in our relations to each other. As far as we two are concerned, we are exactly where we were the last time we met. It's no worse for me now than it was then to know that I'm not the man you love, and that there's somebody else you loved before you ever knew of my existence. For goodness' sake, a girl like you must be used to having men tell her that they love her and having to tell them that she can't love them in return." "But you're so different." "Not a bit of it. I'm just one of the crowd." "I've never known anybody quite like you." "Well, you've never known anybody quite like Plummer, I should imagine. But the thought of his sufferings didn't break your heart." "I've known a million men exactly like Edwin Plummer," said Maud emphatically. "All the men I ever have known have been like him--quite nice and pleasant and negative. It never seemed to matter refusing them. One knew that they would be just a little bit piqued for a week or two and then wander off and fall in love with somebody else. But you're different. You . . . matter." "That is where we disagree. My argument is that, where your happiness is concerned, I don't matter." Maud rested her chin on her hand, and stared out into the velvet darkness. "You ought to have been my brother instead of Percy," she said at last. "What chums we should have been! And how simple that would have made everything!" "The best thing for you to do is to regard me as an honorary brother. That will make everything simple." "It's easy to talk like that . . . No, it isn't. It's horribly hard. I know exactly how difficult it is for you to talk as you have been doing--to try to make me feel better by pretending the whole trouble is just a trifle . . . It's strange . . . We have only met really for a few minutes at a time, and three weeks ago I didn't know there was such a person as you, but somehow I seem to know everything you're thinking. I've never felt like that before with any man . . . Even Geoffrey. . . He always puzzled me. . . ." She broke off. The corncrake began to call again out in the distance. "I wish I knew what to do," she said with a catch in her voice. "I'll tell you in two words what to do. The whole thing is absurdly simple. You love this man and he loves you, and all that kept you apart before was the fact that he could not afford to marry you. Now that he is rich, there is no obstacle at all. I simply won't let you look on me and my feelings as an obstacle. Rule me out altogether. Your father's mistake has made the situation a little more complicated than it need have been, but that can easily be remedied. Imitate the excellent example of Reggie Byng. He was in a position where it would have been embarrassing to announce what he intended to do, so he very sensibly went quietly off and did it and left everybody to find out after it was done. I'm bound to say I never looked on Reggie as a master mind, but, when it came to find a way out of embarrassing situations, one has to admit he had the right idea. Do what he did!" Maud started. She half rose from the stone seat. George could hear the quick intake of her breath. "You mean--run away?" "Exactly. Run away!" An automobile swung round the corner of the castle from the direction of the garage, and drew up, purring, at the steps. There was a flood of light and the sound of voices, as the great door opened. Maud rose. "People are leaving," she said. "I didn't know it was so late." She stood irresolutely. "I suppose I ought to go in and say good-bye. But I don't think I can." "Stay where you are. Nobody will see you." More automobiles arrived. The quiet of the night was shattered by the noise of their engines. Maud sat down again. "I suppose they will think it very odd of me not being there." "Never mind what people think. Reggie Byng didn't." Maud's foot traced circles on the dry turf. "What a lovely night," she said. "There's no dew at all." The automobiles snorted, tooted, back-fired, and passed away. Their clamour died in the distance, leaving the night a thing of peace and magic once more. The door of the castle closed with a bang. "I suppose I ought to be going in now," said Maud. "I suppose so. And I ought to be there, too, politely making my farewells. But something seems to tell me that Lady Caroline and your brother will be quite ready to dispense with the formalities. I shall go home." They faced each other in the darkness. "Would you really do that?" asked Maud. "Run away, I mean, and get married in London." "It's the only thing to do." "But . . . can one get married as quickly as that?" "At a registrar's? Nothing simpler. You should have seen Reggie Byng's wedding. It was over before one realized it had started. A snuffy little man in a black coat with a cold in his head asked a few questions, wrote a few words, and the thing was done." "That sounds rather . . . dreadful." "Reggie didn't seem to think so." "Unromantic, I mean. . . . Prosaic." "You would supply the romance." "Of course, one ought to be sensible. It is just the same as a regular wedding." "In effects, absolutely." They moved up the terrace together. On the gravel drive by the steps they paused. "I'll do it!" said Maud. George had to make an effort before he could reply. For all his sane and convincing arguments, he could not check a pang at this definite acceptance of them. He had begun to appreciate now the strain under which he had been speaking. "You must," he said. "Well . . . good-bye." There was light on the drive. He could see her face. Her eyes were troubled. "What will you do?" she asked. "Do?" "I mean, are you going to stay on in your cottage?" "No, I hardly think I could do that. I shall go back to London tomorrow, and stay at the Carlton for a few days. Then I shall sail for America. There are a couple of pieces I've got to do for the Fall. I ought to be starting on them." Maud looked away. "You've got your work," she said almost inaudibly. George understood her. "Yes, I've got my work." "I'm glad." She held out her hand. "You've been very wonderful... Right from the beginning . . . You've been . . . oh, what's the use of me saying anything?" "I've had my reward. I've known you. We're friends, aren't we?" "My best friend." "Pals?" "Pals!" They shook hands. CHAPTER 25. "I was never so upset in my life!" said Lady Caroline. She had been saying the same thing and many other things for the past five minutes. Until the departure of the last guest she had kept an icy command of herself and shown an unruffled front to the world. She had even contrived to smile. But now, with the final automobile whirring homewards, she had thrown off the mask. The very furniture of Lord Marshmoreton's study seemed to shrink, seared by the flame of her wrath. As for Lord Marshmoreton himself, he looked quite shrivelled. It had not been an easy matter to bring her erring brother to bay. The hunt had been in progress full ten minutes before she and Lord Belpher finally cornered the poor wretch. His plea, through the keyhole of the locked door, that he was working on the family history and could not be disturbed, was ignored; and now he was face to face with the avengers. "I cannot understand it," continued Lady Caroline. "You know that for months we have all been straining every nerve to break off this horrible entanglement, and, just as we had begun to hope that something might be done, you announce the engagement in the most public manner. I think you must be out of your mind. I can hardly believe even now that this appalling thing has happened. I am hoping that I shall wake up and find it is all a nightmare. How you can have done such a thing, I cannot understand." "Quite!" said Lord Belpher. If Lady Caroline was upset, there are no words in the language that will adequately describe the emotions of Percy. From the very start of this lamentable episode in high life, Percy had been in the forefront of the battle. It was Percy who had had his best hat smitten from his head in the full view of all Piccadilly. It was Percy who had suffered arrest and imprisonment in the cause. It was Percy who had been crippled for days owing to his zeal in tracking Maud across country. And now all his sufferings were in vain. He had been betrayed by his own father. There was, so the historians of the Middle West tell us, a man of Chicago named Young, who once, when his nerves were unstrung, put his mother (unseen) in the chopping-machine, and canned her and labelled her "Tongue". It is enough to say that the glance of disapproval which Percy cast upon his father at this juncture would have been unduly severe if cast by the Young offspring upon their parent at the moment of confession. Lord Marshmoreton had rallied from his initial panic. The spirit of revolt began to burn again in his bosom. Once the die is cast for revolution, there can be no looking back. One must defy, not apologize. Perhaps the inherited tendencies of a line of ancestors who, whatever their shortcomings, had at least known how to treat their women folk, came to his aid. Possibly there stood by his side in this crisis ghosts of dead and buried Marshmoretons, whispering spectral encouragement in his ear--the ghosts, let us suppose, of that earl who, in the days of the seventh Henry, had stabbed his wife with a dagger to cure her tendency to lecture him at night; or of that other earl who, at a previous date in the annals of the family, had caused two aunts and a sister to be poisoned apparently from a mere whim. At any rate, Lord Marshmoreton produced from some source sufficient courage to talk back. "Silly nonsense!" he grunted. "Don't see what you're making all this fuss about. Maud loves the fellow. I like the fellow. Perfectly decent fellow. Nothing to make a fuss about. Why shouldn't I announce the engagement?" "You must be mad!" cried Lady Caroline. "Your only daughter and a man nobody knows anything about!" "Quite!" said Percy. Lord Marshmoreton seized his advantage with the skill of an adroit debater. "That's where you're wrong. I know all about him. He's a very rich man. You heard the way all those people at dinner behaved when they heard his name. Very celebrated man! Makes thousands of pounds a year. Perfectly suitable match in every way." "It is not a suitable match," said Lady Caroline vehemently. "I don't care whether this Mr. Bevan makes thousands of pounds a year or twopence-ha'penny. The match is not suitable. Money is not everything." She broke off. A knock had come on the door. The door opened, and Billie Dore came in. A kind-hearted girl, she had foreseen that Lord Marshmoreton might be glad of a change of subject at about this time. "Would you like me to help you tonight?" she asked brightly. "I thought I would ask if there was anything you wanted me to do." Lady Caroline snatched hurriedly at her aristocratic calm. She resented the interruption acutely, but her manner, when she spoke, was bland. "Lord Marshmoreton will not require your help tonight," she said. "He will not be working." "Good night," said Billie. "Good night," said Lady Caroline. Percy scowled a valediction. "Money," resumed Lady Caroline, "is immaterial. Maud is in no position to be obliged to marry a rich man. What makes the thing impossible is that Mr. Bevan is nobody. He comes from nowhere. He has no social standing whatsoever." "Don't see it," said Lord Marshmoreton. "The fellow's a thoroughly decent fellow. That's all that matters." "How can you be so pig-headed! You are talking like an imbecile. Your secretary, Miss Dore, is a nice girl. But how would you feel if Percy were to come to you and say that he was engaged to be married to her?" "Exactly!" said Percy. "Quite!" Lord Marshmoreton rose and moved to the door. He did it with a certain dignity, but there was a strange hunted expression in his eyes. "That would be impossible," he said. "Precisely," said his sister. "I am glad that you admit it." Lord Marshmoreton had reached the door, and was standing holding the handle. He seemed to gather strength from its support. "I've been meaning to tell you about that," he said. "About what?" "About Miss Dore. I married her myself last Wednesday," said Lord Marshmoreton, and disappeared like a diving duck. CHAPTER 26. At a quarter past four in the afternoon, two days after the memorable dinner-party at which Lord Marshmoreton had behaved with so notable a lack of judgment, Maud sat in Ye Cosy Nooke, waiting for Geoffrey Raymond. He had said in his telegram that he would meet her there at four-thirty: but eagerness had brought Maud to the tryst a quarter of an hour ahead of time: and already the sadness of her surroundings was causing her to regret this impulsiveness. Depression had settled upon her spirit. She was aware of something that resembled foreboding. Ye Cosy Nooke, as its name will immediately suggest to those who know their London, is a tea-shop in Bond Street, conducted by distressed gentlewomen. In London, when a gentlewoman becomes distressed--which she seems to do on the slightest provocation--she collects about her two or three other distressed gentlewomen, forming a quorum, and starts a tea-shop in the West-End, which she calls Ye Oak Leaf, Ye Olde Willow-Pattern, Ye Linden-Tree, or Ye Snug Harbour, according to personal taste. There, dressed in Tyrolese, Japanese, Norwegian, or some other exotic costume, she and her associates administer refreshments of an afternoon with a proud languor calculated to knock the nonsense out of the cheeriest customer. Here you will find none of the coarse bustle and efficiency of the rival establishments of Lyons and Co., nor the glitter and gaiety of Rumpelmayer's. These places have an atmosphere of their own. They rely for their effect on an insufficiency of light, an almost total lack of ventilation, a property chocolate cake which you are not supposed to cut, and the sad aloofness of their ministering angels. It is to be doubted whether there is anything in the world more damping to the spirit than a London tea-shop of this kind, unless it be another London tea-shop of the same kind. Maud sat and waited. Somewhere out of sight a kettle bubbled in an undertone, like a whispering pessimist. Across the room two distressed gentlewomen in fancy dress leaned against the wall. They, too, were whispering. Their expressions suggested that they looked on life as low and wished they were well out of it, like the body upstairs. One assumed that there was a body upstairs. One cannot help it at these places. One's first thought on entering is that the lady assistant will approach one and ask in a hushed voice "Tea or chocolate? And would you care to view the remains?" Maud looked at her watch. It was twenty past four. She could scarcely believe that she had only been there five minutes, but the ticking of the watch assured her that it had not stopped. Her depression deepened. Why had Geoffrey told her to meet him in a cavern of gloom like this instead of at the Savoy? She would have enjoyed the Savoy. But here she seemed to have lost beyond recovery the first gay eagerness with which she had set out to meet the man she loved. Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Some evil spirit, possibly the kettle, seemed to whisper to her that she had been foolish in coming here, to cast doubts on what she had hitherto regarded as the one rock-solid fact in the world, her love for Geoffrey. Could she have changed since those days in Wales? Life had been so confusing of late. In the vividness of recent happenings those days in Wales seemed a long way off, and she herself different from the girl of a year ago. She found herself thinking about George Bevan. It was a curious fact that, the moment she began to think of George Bevan, she felt better. It was as if she had lost her way in a wilderness and had met a friend. There was something so capable, so soothing about George. And how well he had behaved at that last interview. George seemed somehow to be part of her life. She could not imagine a life in which he had no share. And he was at this moment, probably, packing to return to America, and she would never see him again. Something stabbed at her heart. It was as if she were realizing now for the first time that he was really going. She tried to rid herself of the ache at her heart by thinking of Wales. She closed her eyes, and found that that helped her to remember. With her eyes shut, she could bring it all back--that rainy day, the graceful, supple figure that had come to her out of the mist, those walks over the hills . . . If only Geoffrey would come! It was the sight of him that she needed. "There you are!" Maud opened her eyes with a start. The voice had sounded like Geoffrey's. But it was a stranger who stood by the table. And not a particularly prepossessing stranger. In the dim light of Ye Cosy Nooke, to which her opening eyes had not yet grown accustomed, all she could see of the man was that he was remarkably stout. She stiffened defensively. This was what a girl who sat about in tea-rooms alone had to expect. "Hope I'm not late," said the stranger, sitting down and breathing heavily. "I thought a little exercise would do me good, so I walked." Every nerve in Maud's body seemed to come to life simultaneously. She tingled from head to foot. It was Geoffrey! He was looking over his shoulder and endeavouring by snapping his fingers to attract the attention of the nearest distressed gentlewoman; and this gave Maud time to recover from the frightful shock she had received. Her dizziness left her; and, leaving, was succeeded by a panic dismay. This couldn't be Geoffrey! It was outrageous that it should be Geoffrey! And yet it undeniably was Geoffrey. For a year she had prayed that Geoffrey might be given back to her, and the gods had heard her prayer. They had given her back Geoffrey, and with a careless generosity they had given her twice as much of him as she had expected. She had asked for the slim Apollo whom she had loved in Wales, and this colossal changeling had arrived in his stead. We all of us have our prejudices. Maud had a prejudice against fat men. It may have been the spectacle of her brother Percy, bulging more and more every year she had known him, that had caused this kink in her character. At any rate, it existed, and she gazed in sickened silence at Geoffrey. He had turned again now, and she was enabled to get a full and complete view of him. He was not merely stout. He was gross. The slim figure which had haunted her for a year had spread into a sea of waistcoat. The keen lines of his face had disappeared altogether. His cheeks were pink jellies. One of the distressed gentlewomen had approached with a slow disdain, and was standing by the table, brooding on the corpse upstairs. It seemed a shame to bother her. "Tea or chocolate?" she inquired proudly. "Tea, please," said Maud, finding her voice. "One tea," sighed the mourner. "Chocolate for me," said Geoffrey briskly, with the air of one discoursing on a congenial topic. "I'd like plenty of whipped cream. And please see that it's hot." "One chocolate." Geoffrey pondered. This was no light matter that occupied him. "And bring some fancy cakes--I like the ones with icing on them--and some tea-cake and buttered toast. Please see there's plenty of butter on it." Maud shivered. This man before her was a man in whose lexicon there should have been no such word as butter, a man who should have called for the police had some enemy endeavoured to thrust butter upon him. "Well," said Geoffrey leaning forward, as the haughty ministrant drifted away, "you haven't changed a bit. To look at, I mean." "No?" said Maud. "You're just the same. I think I"--he squinted down at his waistcoat--"have put on a little weight. I don't know if you notice it?" Maud shivered again. He thought he had put on a little weight, and didn't know if she had noticed it! She was oppressed by the eternal melancholy miracle of the fat man who does not realize that he has become fat. "It was living on the yacht that put me a little out of condition," said Geoffrey. "I was on the yacht nearly all the time since I saw you last. The old boy had a Japanese cook and lived pretty high. It was apoplexy that got him. We had a great time touring about. We were on the Mediterranean all last winter, mostly at Nice." "I should like to go to Nice," said Maud, for something to say. She was feeling that it was not only externally that Geoffrey had changed. Or had he in reality always been like this, commonplace and prosaic, and was it merely in her imagination that he had been wonderful? "If you ever go," said Geoffrey, earnestly, "don't fail to lunch at the Hotel Côte d'Azur. They give you the most amazing selection of hors d'oeuvres you ever saw. Crayfish as big as baby lobsters! And there's a fish--I've forgotten it's name, it'll come back to me--that's just like the Florida pompano. Be careful to have it broiled, not fried. Otherwise you lose the flavour. Tell the waiter you must have it broiled, with melted butter and a little parsley and some plain boiled potatoes. It's really astonishing. It's best to stick to fish on the Continent. People can say what they like, but I maintain that the French don't really understand steaks or any sort of red meat. The veal isn't bad, though I prefer our way of serving it. Of course, what the French are real geniuses at is the omelet. I remember, when we put in at Toulon for coal, I went ashore for a stroll, and had the most delicious omelet with chicken livers beautifully cooked, at quite a small, unpretentious place near the harbour. I shall always remember it." The mourner returned, bearing a laden tray, from which she removed the funeral bakemeats and placed them limply on the table. Geoffrey shook his head, annoyed. "I particularly asked for plenty of butter on my toast!" he said. "I hate buttered toast if there isn't lots of butter. It isn't worth eating. Get me a couple of pats, will you, and I'll spread it myself. Do hurry, please, before the toast gets cold. It's no good if the toast gets cold. They don't understand tea as a meal at these places," he said to Maud, as the mourner withdrew. "You have to go to the country to appreciate the real thing. I remember we lay off Lyme Regis down Devonshire way, for a few days, and I went and had tea at a farmhouse there. It was quite amazing! Thick Devonshire cream and home-made jam and cakes of every kind. This sort of thing here is just a farce. I do wish that woman would make haste with that butter. It'll be too late in a minute." Maud sipped her tea in silence. Her heart was like lead within her. The recurrence of the butter theme as a sort of _leit motif_ in her companion's conversation was fraying her nerves till she felt she could endure little more. She cast her mind's eye back over the horrid months and had a horrid vision of Geoffrey steadily absorbing butter, day after day, week after week--ever becoming more and more of a human keg. She shuddered. Indignation at the injustice of Fate in causing her to give her heart to a man and then changing him into another and quite different man fought with a cold terror, which grew as she realized more and more clearly the magnitude of the mistake she had made. She felt that she must escape. And yet how could she escape? She had definitely pledged herself to this man. ("Ah!" cried Geoffrey gaily, as the pats of butter arrived. "That's more like it!" He began to smear the toast. Maud averted her eyes.) She had told him that she loved him, that he was the whole world to her, that there never would be anyone else. He had come to claim her. How could she refuse him just because he was about thirty pounds overweight? Geoffrey finished his meal. He took out a cigarette. ("No smoking, please!" said the distressed gentlewoman.) He put the cigarette back in its case. There was a new expression in his eyes now, a tender expression. For the first time since they had met Maud seemed to catch a far-off glimpse of the man she had loved in Wales. Butter appeared to have softened Geoffrey. "So you couldn't wait!" he said with pathos. Maud did not understand. "I waited over a quarter of an hour. It was you who were late." "I don't mean that. I am referring to your engagement. I saw the announcement in the Morning Post. Well, I hope you will let me offer you my best wishes. This Mr. George Bevan, whoever he is, is lucky." Maud had opened her mouth to explain, to say that it was all a mistake. She closed it again without speaking. "So you couldn't wait!" proceeded Geoffrey with gentle regret. "Well, I suppose I ought not to blame you. You are at an age when it is easy to forget. I had no right to hope that you would be proof against a few months' separation. I expected too much. But it is ironical, isn't it! There was I, thinking always of those days last summer when we were everything to each other, while you had forgotten me--Forgotten me!" sighed Geoffrey. He picked a fragment of cake absently off the tablecloth and inserted it in his mouth. The unfairness of the attack stung Maud to speech. She looked back over the months, thought of all she had suffered, and ached with self-pity. "I hadn't," she cried. "You hadn't? But you let this other man, this George Bevan, make love to you." "I didn't! That was all a mistake." "A mistake?" "Yes. It would take too long to explain, but . . ." She stopped. It had come to her suddenly, in a flash of clear vision, that the mistake was one which she had no desire to correct. She felt like one who, lost in a jungle, comes out after long wandering into the open air. For days she had been thinking confusedly, unable to interpret her own emotions: and now everything had abruptly become clarified. It was as if the sight of Geoffrey had been the key to a cipher. She loved George Bevan, the man she had sent out of her life for ever. She knew it now, and the shock of realization made her feel faint and helpless. And, mingled with the shock of realization, there came to her the mortification of knowing that her aunt, Lady Caroline, and her brother, Percy, had been right after all. What she had mistaken for the love of a lifetime had been, as they had so often insisted, a mere infatuation, unable to survive the spectacle of a Geoffrey who had been eating too much butter and had put on flesh. Geoffrey swallowed his piece of cake, and bent forward. "Aren't you engaged to this man Bevan?" Maud avoided his eye. She was aware that the crisis had arrived, and that her whole future hung on her next words. And then Fate came to her rescue. Before she could speak, there was an interruption. "Pardon me," said a voice. "One moment!" So intent had Maud and her companion been on their own affairs that neither of them observed the entrance of a third party. This was a young man with mouse-coloured hair and a freckled, badly-shaven face which seemed undecided whether to be furtive or impudent. He had small eyes, and his costume was a blend of the flashy and the shabby. He wore a bowler hat, tilted a little rakishly to one side, and carried a small bag, which he rested on the table between them. "Sorry to intrude, miss." He bowed gallantly to Maud, "but I want to have a few words with Mr. Spenser Gray here." Maud, looking across at Geoffrey, was surprised to see that his florid face had lost much of its colour. His mouth was open, and his eyes had taken a glassy expression. "I think you have made a mistake," she said coldly. She disliked the young man at sight. "This is Mr. Raymond." Geoffrey found speech. "Of course I'm Mr. Raymond!" he cried angrily. "What do you mean by coming and annoying us like this?" The young man was not discomposed. He appeared to be used to being unpopular. He proceeded as though there had been no interruption. He produced a dingy card. "Glance at that," he said. "Messrs. Willoughby and Son, Solicitors. I'm son. The guv'nor put this little matter into my hands. I've been looking for you for days, Mr. Gray, to hand you this paper." He opened the bag like a conjurer performing a trick, and brought out a stiff document of legal aspect. "You're a witness, miss, that I've served the papers. You know what this is, of course?" he said to Geoffrey. "Action for breach of promise of marriage. Our client, Miss Yvonne Sinclair, of the Regal Theatre, is suing you for ten thousand pounds. And, if you ask me," said the young man with genial candour, dropping the professional manner, "I don't mind telling you, I think it's a walk-over! It's the best little action for breach we've handled for years." He became professional again. "Your lawyers will no doubt communicate with us in due course. And, if you take my advice," he concluded, with another of his swift changes of manner, "you'll get 'em to settle out of court, for, between me and you and the lamp-post, you haven't an earthly!" Geoffrey had started to his feet. He was puffing with outraged innocence. "What the devil do you mean by this?" he demanded. "Can't you see you've made a mistake? My name is not Gray. This lady has told you that I am Geoffrey Raymond!" "Makes it all the worse for you," said the young man imperturbably, "making advances to our client under an assumed name. We've got letters and witnesses and the whole bag of tricks. And how about this photo?" He dived into the bag again. "Do you recognize that, miss?" Maud looked at the photograph. It was unmistakably Geoffrey. And it had evidently been taken recently, for it showed the later Geoffrey, the man of substance. It was a full-length photograph and across the stout legs was written in a flowing hand the legend, "To Babe from her little Pootles". Maud gave a shudder and handed it back to the young man, just as Geoffrey, reaching across the table, made a grab for it. "I recognize it," she said. Mr. Willoughby junior packed the photograph away in his bag, and turned to go. "That's all for today, then, I think," he said, affably. He bowed again in his courtly way, tilted the hat a little more to the left, and, having greeted one of the distressed gentlewomen who loitered limply in his path with a polite "If you please, Mabel!" which drew upon him a freezing stare of which he seemed oblivious, he passed out, leaving behind him strained silence. Maud was the first to break it. "I think I'll be going," she said. The words seemed to rouse her companion from his stupor. "Let me explain!" "There's nothing to explain." "It was just a . . . it was just a passing . . . It was nothing . . . nothing." "Pootles!" murmured Maud. Geoffrey followed her as she moved to the door. "Be reasonable!" pleaded Geoffrey. "Men aren't saints! It was nothing! . . . Are you going to end . . . everything . . . just because I lost my head?" Maud looked at him with a smile. She was conscious of an overwhelming relief. The dim interior of Ye Cosy Nooke no longer seemed depressing. She could have kissed this unknown "Babe" whose businesslike action had enabled her to close a regrettable chapter in her life with a clear conscience. "But you haven't only lost your head, Geoffrey," she said. "You've lost your figure as well." She went out quickly. With a convulsive bound Geoffrey started to follow her, but was checked before he had gone a yard. There are formalities to be observed before a patron can leave Ye Cosy Nooke. "If you please!" said a distressed gentlewomanly voice. The lady whom Mr. Willoughby had addressed as Mabel--erroneously, for her name was Ernestine--was standing beside him with a slip of paper. "Six and twopence," said Ernestine. For a moment this appalling statement drew the unhappy man's mind from the main issue. "Six and twopence for a cup of chocolate and a few cakes?" he cried, aghast. "It's robbery!" "Six and twopence, please!" said the queen of the bandits with undisturbed calm. She had been through this sort of thing before. Ye Cosy Nooke did not get many customers; but it made the most of those it did get. "Here!" Geoffrey produced a half-sovereign. "I haven't time to argue!" The distressed brigand showed no gratification. She had the air of one who is aloof from worldly things. All she wanted was rest and leisure--leisure to meditate upon the body upstairs. All flesh is as grass. We are here today and gone tomorrow. But there, beyond the grave, is peace. "Your change?" she said. "Damn the change!" "You are forgetting your hat." "Damn my hat!" Geoffrey dashed from the room. He heaved his body through the door. He lumbered down the stairs. Out in Bond Street the traffic moved up and the traffic moved down. Strollers strolled upon the sidewalks. But Maud had gone. CHAPTER 27. In his bedroom at the Carlton Hotel George Bevan was packing. That is to say, he had begun packing; but for the last twenty minutes he had been sitting on the side of the bed, staring into a future which became bleaker and bleaker the more he examined it. In the last two days he had been no stranger to these grey moods, and they had become harder and harder to dispel. Now, with the steamer-trunk before him gaping to receive its contents, he gave himself up whole-heartedly to gloom. Somehow the steamer-trunk, with all that it implied of partings and voyagings, seemed to emphasize the fact that he was going out alone into an empty world. Soon he would be on board the liner, every revolution of whose engines would be taking him farther away from where his heart would always be. There were moments when the torment of this realization became almost physical. It was incredible that three short weeks ago he had been a happy man. Lonely, perhaps, but only in a vague, impersonal way. Not lonely with this aching loneliness that tortured him now. What was there left for him? As regards any triumphs which the future might bring in connection with his work, he was, as Mac the stage-door keeper had said, "blarzy". Any success he might have would be but a stale repetition of other successes which he had achieved. He would go on working, of course, but--. The ringing of the telephone bell across the room jerked him back to the present. He got up with a muttered malediction. Someone calling up again from the theatre probably. They had been doing it all the time since he had announced his intention of leaving for America by Saturday's boat. "Hello?" he said wearily. "Is that George?" asked a voice. It seemed familiar, but all female voices sound the same over the telephone. "This is George," he replied. "Who are you?" "Don't you know my voice?" "I do not." "You'll know it quite well before long. I'm a great talker." "Is that Billie?" "It is not Billie, whoever Billie may be. I am female, George." "So is Billie." "Well, you had better run through the list of your feminine friends till you reach me." "I haven't any feminine friends." "None?" "That's odd." "Why?" "You told me in the garden two nights ago that you looked on me as a pal." George sat down abruptly. He felt boneless. "Is--is that you?" he stammered. "It can't be--Maud!" "How clever of you to guess. George, I want to ask you one or two things. In the first place, are you fond of butter?" George blinked. This was not a dream. He had just bumped his knee against the corner of the telephone table, and it still hurt most convincingly. He needed the evidence to assure himself that he was awake. "Butter?" he queried. "What do you mean?" "Oh, well, if you don't even know what butter means, I expect it's all right. What is your weight, George?" "About a hundred and eighty pounds. But I don't understand." "Wait a minute." There was a silence at the other end of the wire. "About thirteen stone," said Maud's voice. "I've been doing it in my head. And what was it this time last year?" "About the same, I think. I always weigh about the same." "How wonderful! George!" "Yes?" "This is very important. Have you ever been in Florida?" "I was there one winter." "Do you know a fish called the pompano?" "Yes." "Tell me about it." "How do you mean? It's just a fish. You eat it." "I know. Go into details." "There aren't any details. You just eat it." The voice at the other end of the wire purred with approval. "I never heard anything so splendid. The last man who mentioned pompano to me became absolutely lyrical about sprigs of parsley and melted butter. Well, that's that. Now, here's another very important point. How about wall-paper?" George pressed his unoccupied hand against his forehead. This conversation was unnerving him. "I didn't get that," he said. "Didn't get what?" "I mean, I didn't quite catch what you said that time. It sounded to me like 'What about wall-paper?'" "It was 'What about wall-paper?' Why not?" "But," said George weakly, "it doesn't make any sense." "Oh, but it does. I mean, what about wall-paper for your den?" "My den?" "Your den. You must have a den. Where do you suppose you're going to work, if you don't? Now, my idea would be some nice quiet grass-cloth. And, of course, you would have lots of pictures and books. And a photograph of me. I'll go and be taken specially. Then there would be a piano for you to work on, and two or three really comfortable chairs. And--well, that would be about all, wouldn't it?" George pulled himself together. "Hello!" he said. "Why do you say 'Hello'?" "I forgot I was in London. I should have said 'Are you there?'" "Yes, I'm here." "Well, then, what does it all mean?" "What does what mean?" "What you've been saying--about butter and pompanos and wall-paper and my den and all that? I don't understand." "How stupid of you! I was asking you what sort of wall-paper you would like in your den after we were married and settled down." George dropped the receiver. It clashed against the side of the table. He groped for it blindly. "Hello!" he said. "Don't say 'Hello!' It sounds so abrupt!" "What did you say then?" "I said 'Don't say Hello!'" "No, before that! Before that! You said something about getting married." "Well, aren't we going to get married? Our engagement is announced in the Morning Post." "But--But--" "George!" Maud's voice shook. "Don't tell me you are going to jilt me!" she said tragically. "Because, if you are, let me know in time, as I shall want to bring an action for breach of promise. I've just met such a capable young man who will look after the whole thing for me. He wears a bowler hat on the side of his head and calls waitresses 'Mabel'. Answer 'yes' or 'no'. Will you marry me?" "But--But--how about--I mean, what about--I mean how about--?" "Make up your mind what you do mean." "The other fellow!" gasped George. A musical laugh was wafted to him over the wire. "What about him?" "Well, what about him?" said George. "Isn't a girl allowed to change her mind?" said Maud. George yelped excitedly. Maud gave a cry. "Don't sing!" she said. "You nearly made me deaf." "Have you changed your mind?" "Certainly I have!" "And you really think--You really want--I mean, you really want--You really think--" "Don't be so incoherent!" "Maud!" "Well?" "Will you marry me?" "Of course I will." "Gosh!" "What did you say?" "I said Gosh! And listen to me, when I say Gosh, I mean Gosh! Where are you? I must see you. Where can we meet? I want to see you! For Heaven's sake, tell me where you are. I want to see you! Where are you? Where are you?" "I'm downstairs." "Where? Here at the 'Carlton'?" "Here at the 'Carlton'!" "Alone?" "Quite alone." "You won't be long!" said George. He hung up the receiver, and bounded across the room to where his coat hung over the back of a chair. The edge of the steamer-trunk caught his shin. "Well," said George to the steamer-trunk, "and what are you butting in for? Who wants you, I should like to know!" 
2042	----	SOMETHING NEW by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse CHAPTER I The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts--clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings. At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out. Of all the spots in London which may fairly be described as backwaters there is none that answers so completely to the description as Arundell Street, Leicester Square. Passing along the north sidewalk of the square, just where it joins Piccadilly, you hardly notice the bottleneck opening of the tiny cul-de-sac. Day and night the human flood roars past, ignoring it. Arundell Street is less than forty yards in length; and, though there are two hotels in it, they are not fashionable hotels. It is just a backwater. In shape Arundell Street is exactly like one of those flat stone jars in which Italian wine of the cheaper sort is stored. The narrow neck that leads off Leicester Square opens abruptly into a small court. Hotels occupy two sides of this; the third is at present given up to rooming houses for the impecunious. These are always just going to be pulled down in the name of progress to make room for another hotel, but they never do meet with that fate; and as they stand now so will they in all probability stand for generations to come. They provide single rooms of moderate size, the bed modestly hidden during the day behind a battered screen. The rooms contain a table, an easy-chair, a hard chair, a bureau, and a round tin bath, which, like the bed, goes into hiding after its useful work is performed. And you may rent one of these rooms, with breakfast thrown in, for five dollars a week. Ashe Marson had done so. He had rented the second-floor front of Number Seven. Twenty-six years before this story opens there had been born to Joseph Marson, minister, and Sarah his wife, of Hayling, Massachusetts, in the United States of America, a son. This son, christened Ashe after a wealthy uncle who subsequently double-crossed them by leaving his money to charities, in due course proceeded to Harvard to study for the ministry. So far as can be ascertained from contemporary records, he did not study a great deal for the ministry; but he did succeed in running the mile in four minutes and a half and the half mile at a correspondingly rapid speed, and his researches in the art of long jumping won him the respect of all. That he should be awarded, at the conclusion of his Harvard career, one of those scholarships at Oxford University instituted by the late Cecil Rhodes for the encouragement of the liberal arts, was a natural sequence of events. That was how Ashe came to be in England. The rest of Ashe's history follows almost automatically. He won his blue for athletics at Oxford, and gladdened thousands by winning the mile and the half mile two years in succession against Cambridge at Queen's Club. But owing to the pressure of other engagements he unfortunately omitted to do any studying, and when the hour of parting arrived he was peculiarly unfitted for any of the learned professions. Having, however, managed to obtain a sort of degree, enough to enable him to call himself a Bachelor of Arts, and realizing that you can fool some of the people some of the time, he applied for and secured a series of private tutorships. A private tutor is a sort of blend of poor relation and nursemaid, and few of the stately homes of England are without one. He is supposed to instill learning and deportment into the small son of the house; but what he is really there for is to prevent the latter from being a nuisance to his parents when he is home from school on his vacation. Having saved a little money at this dreadful trade, Ashe came to London and tried newspaper work. After two years of moderate success he got in touch with the Mammoth Publishing Company. The Mammoth Publishing Company, which controls several important newspapers, a few weekly journals, and a number of other things, does not disdain the pennies of the office boy and the junior clerk. One of its many profitable ventures is a series of paper-covered tales of crime and adventure. It was here that Ashe found his niche. Those adventures of Gridley Quayle, Investigator, which are so popular with a certain section of the reading public, were his work. Until the advent of Ashe and Mr. Quayle, the British Pluck Library had been written by many hands and had included the adventures of many heroes: but in Gridley Quayle the proprietors held that the ideal had been reached, and Ashe received a commission to conduct the entire British Pluck Library--monthly--himself. On the meager salary paid him for these labors he had been supporting himself ever since. That was how Ashe came to be in Arundell Street, Leicester Square, on this May morning. He was a tall, well-built, fit-looking young man, with a clear eye and a strong chin; and he was dressed, as he closed the front door behind him, in a sweater, flannel trousers, and rubber-soled gymnasium shoes. In one hand he bore a pair of Indian clubs, in the other a skipping rope. Having drawn in and expelled the morning air in a measured and solemn fashion, which the initiated observer would have recognized as that scientific deep breathing so popular nowadays, he laid down his clubs, adjusted his rope and began to skip. When he had taken the second-floor front of Number Seven, three months before, Ashe Marson had realized that he must forego those morning exercises which had become a second nature to him, or else defy London's unwritten law and brave London's mockery. He had not hesitated long. Physical fitness was his gospel. On the subject of exercise he was confessedly a crank. He decided to defy London. The first time he appeared in Arundell Street in his sweater and flannels he had barely whirled his Indian clubs once around his head before he had attracted the following audience: a) Two cabmen--one intoxicated; b) Four waiters from the Hotel Mathis; c) Six waiters from the Hotel Previtali; d) Six chambermaids from the Hotel Mathis; e) Five chambermaids from the Hotel Previtali; f) The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis; g) The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali; h) A street cleaner; i) Eleven nondescript loafers; j) Twenty-seven children; k) A cat. They all laughed--even the cat--and kept on laughing. The intoxicated cabman called Ashe "Sunny Jim." And Ashe kept on swinging his clubs. A month later, such is the magic of perseverance, his audience had narrowed down to the twenty-seven children. They still laughed, but without that ringing conviction which the sympathetic support of their elders had lent them. And now, after three months, the neighborhood, having accepted Ashe and his morning exercises as a natural phenomenon, paid him no further attention. On this particular morning Ashe Marson skipped with even more than his usual vigor. This was because he wished to expel by means of physical fatigue a small devil of discontent, of whose presence within him he had been aware ever since getting out of bed. It is in the Spring that the ache for the larger life comes on us, and this was a particularly mellow Spring morning. It was the sort of morning when the air gives us a feeling of anticipation--a feeling that, on a day like this, things surely cannot go jogging along in the same dull old groove; a premonition that something romantic and exciting is about to happen to us. But the southwest wind of Spring brings also remorse. We catch the vague spirit of unrest in the air and we regret our misspent youth. Ashe was doing this. Even as he skipped, he was conscious of a wish that he had studied harder at college and was now in a position to be doing something better than hack work for a soulless publishing company. Never before had he been so completely certain that he was sick to death of the rut into which he had fallen. Skipping brought no balm. He threw down his rope and took up the Indian clubs. Indian clubs left him still unsatisfied. The thought came to him that it was a long time since he had done his Larsen Exercises. Perhaps they would heal him. The Larsen Exercises, invented by a certain Lieutenant Larsen, of the Swedish Army, have almost every sort of merit. They make a man strong, supple, and slender. But they are not dignified. Indeed, to one seeing them suddenly and without warning for the first time, they are markedly humorous. The only reason why King Henry, of England, whose son sank with the White Ship, never smiled again, was because Lieutenant Larsen had not then invented his admirable exercises. So complacent, so insolently unselfconscious had Ashe become in the course of three months, owing to his success in inducing the populace to look on anything he did with the indulgent eye of understanding, that it simply did not occur to him, when he abruptly twisted his body into the shape of a corkscrew, in accordance with the directions in the lieutenant's book for the consummation of Exercise One, that he was doing anything funny. And the behavior of those present seemed to justify his confidence. The proprietor of the Hotel Mathis regarded him without a smile. The proprietor of the Hotel Previtali might have been in a trance, for all the interest he displayed. The hotel employees continued their tasks impassively. The children were blind and dumb. The cat across the way stropped its backbone against the railings unheeding. But, even as he unscrambled himself and resumed a normal posture, from his immediate rear there rent the quiet morning air a clear and musical laugh. It floated out on the breeze and hit him like a bullet. Three months ago Ashe would have accepted the laugh as inevitable, and would have refused to allow it to embarrass him; but long immunity from ridicule had sapped his resolution. He spun round with a jump, flushed and self-conscious. From the window of the first-floor front of Number Seven a girl was leaning. The Spring sunshine played on her golden hair and lit up her bright blue eyes, fixed on his flanneled and sweatered person with a fascinated amusement. Even as he turned, the laugh smote him afresh. For the space of perhaps two seconds they stared at each other, eye to eye. Then she vanished into the room. Ashe was beaten. Three months ago a million girls could have laughed at his morning exercises without turning him from his purpose. Today this one scoffer, alone and unaided, was sufficient for his undoing. The depression which exercise had begun to dispel surged back on him. He had no heart to continue. Sadly gathering up his belongings, he returned to his room, and found a cold bath tame and uninspiring. The breakfasts--included in the rent--provided by Mrs. Bell, the landlady of Number Seven, were held by some authorities to be specially designed to quell the spirits of their victims, should they tend to soar excessively. By the time Ashe had done his best with the disheveled fried egg, the chicory blasphemously called coffee, and the charred bacon, misery had him firmly in its grip. And when he forced himself to the table, and began to try to concoct the latest of the adventures of Gridley Quayle, Investigator, his spirit groaned within him. This morning, as he sat and chewed his pen, his loathing for Gridley seemed to have reached its climax. It was his habit, in writing these stories, to think of a good title first, and then fit an adventure to it. And overnight, in a moment of inspiration, he had jotted down on an envelope the words: "The Adventure of the Wand of Death." It was with the sullen repulsion of a vegetarian who finds a caterpillar in his salad that he now sat glaring at them. The title had seemed so promising overnight--so full of strenuous possibilities. It was still speciously attractive; but now that the moment had arrived for writing the story its flaws became manifest. What was a wand of death? It sounded good; but, coming down to hard facts, what was it? You cannot write a story about a wand of death without knowing what a wand of death is; and, conversely, if you have thought of such a splendid title you cannot jettison it offhand. Ashe rumpled his hair and gnawed his pen. There came a knock at the door. Ashe spun round in his chair. This was the last straw! If he had told Mrs. Ball once that he was never to be disturbed in the morning on any pretext whatsoever, he had told her twenty times. It was simply too infernal to be endured if his work time was to be cut into like this. Ashe ran over in his mind a few opening remarks. "Come in!" he shouted, and braced himself for battle. A girl walked in--the girl of the first-floor front; the girl with the blue eyes, who had laughed at his Larsen Exercises. Various circumstances contributed to the poorness of the figure Ashe cut in the opening moments of this interview. In the first place, he was expecting to see his landlady, whose height was about four feet six, and the sudden entry of somebody who was about five feet seven threw the universe temporarily out of focus. In the second place, in anticipation of Mrs. Bell's entry, he had twisted his face into a forbidding scowl, and it was no slight matter to change this on the spur of the moment into a pleasant smile. Finally, a man who has been sitting for half an hour in front of a sheet of paper bearing the words: "The Adventure of the Wand of Death," and trying to decide what a wand of death might be, has not his mind under proper control. The net result of these things was that, for perhaps half a minute, Ashe behaved absurdly. He goggled and he yammered. An alienist, had one been present, would have made up his mind about him without further investigation. For an appreciable time he did not think of rising from his seat. When he did, the combined leap and twist he executed practically amounted to a Larsen Exercise. Nor was the girl unembarrassed. If Ashe had been calmer he would have observed on her cheek the flush which told that she, too, was finding the situation trying. But, woman being ever better equipped with poise than man, it was she who spoke first. "I'm afraid I'm disturbing you." "No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all--not at all! No. Oh, no--not at all--no!" And would have continued to play on the theme indefinitely had not the girl spoken again. "I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness in laughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry." Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yet succeeded in discovering the correct reply for a young man to make who finds himself in the appalling position of being apologized to by a pretty girl. If he says nothing he seems sullen and unforgiving. If he says anything he makes a fool of himself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses, suddenly caught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been poring so long. "What is a wand of death?" he asked. "I beg your pardon?" "A wand of death?" "I don't understand." The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst out laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. And simultaneously embarrassment ceased to be. "I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe. "Certainly," said the girl. "Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in." "Why was that?" "I was trying to write a detective story." "I was wondering whether you were a writer." "Do you write?" "Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?" "Never!" "You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's a horrid little paper--all brown-paper patterns and advice to the lovelorn and puzzles. I do a short story for it every week, under various names. A duke or an earl goes with each story. I loathe it intensely." "I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we are wandering from the point. What is a wand of death?" "A wand of death?" "A wand of death." The girl frowned reflectively. "Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening messages. What else could it be?" Ashe could not restrain his admiration. "This is genius!" "Oh, no!" "Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle, and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked coincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with another month's work done." She looked at him with interest. "Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?" "Don't tell me you read him!" "I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that publishes Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his cover sometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see the editress." Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island. Here was a real bond between them. "Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in misfortune--fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be friends?" "I should be delighted." "Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a little?" "But I am keeping you from your work." "An errand of mercy." She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like everything else, it may be an index to character. There was something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end. She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire. Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surprise and hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with a second-floor front young man whom she has known only five minutes. But there is a freemasonry among those who live in large cities on small earnings. "Shall we introduce ourselves?" said Ashe. "Or did Mrs. Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?" "I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?" "Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson--Ashe Marson. And yours?" "Valentine--Joan Valentine." "Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell mine first?" "I don't know that I have any particular story. I am an American." "Not American!" "Why not?" "Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quayle coincidence. I am an American!" "Well, so are a good many other people." "You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs--we are fellow exiles. You can't round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?" "I was born in New York." "Surely not! I didn't know anybody was." "Why Hayling, Massachusetts?" "That was where I was born." "I'm afraid I never heard of it." "Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall. I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures." "How old are you?" "Twenty-six." "You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I think that is a shameful thing to say." "What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories--an empire builder?" "How do you know it's your only means of making a living? Why don't you try something new?" "Such as?" "How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side." "I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me on every side has been Mrs. Bell--for the week's rent." "Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I'm sure you will find something sooner or later. Don't get into a groove. Be an adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is." Ashe nodded. "Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me." "But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago--never mind how. Since then I have worked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had a position as governess, been a lady's maid--" "A what! A lady's maid?" "Why not? It was all experience; and I can assure you I would much rather be a lady's maid than a governess." "I think I know what you mean. I was a private tutor once. I suppose a governess is the female equivalent. I have often wondered what General Sherman would have said about private tutoring if he expressed himself so breezily about mere war. Was it fun being a lady's maid?" "It was pretty good fun; and it gave me an opportunity of studying the aristocracy in its native haunts, which has made me the Gossip's established authority on dukes and earls." Ashe drew a deep breath--not a scientific deep breath, but one of admiration. "You are perfectly splendid!" "Splendid?" "I mean, you have such pluck." "Oh, well; I keep on trying. I'm twenty-three and I haven't achieved anything much yet; but I certainly don't feel like sitting back and calling myself a failure." Ashe made a grimace. "All right," he said. "I've got it." "I meant you to," said Joan placidly. "I hope I haven't bored you with my autobiography, Mr. Marson. I'm not setting myself up as a shining example; but I do like action and hate stagnation." "You are absolutely wonderful!" said Ashe. "You are a human correspondence course in efficiency, one of the ones you see advertised in the back pages of the magazines, beginning, 'Young man, are you earning enough?' with a picture showing the dead beat gazing wistfully at the boss' chair. You would galvanize a jellyfish." "If I have really stimulated you-----" "I think that was another slam," said Ashe pensively. "Well, I deserve it. Yes, you have stimulated me. I feel like a new man. It's queer that you should have come to me right on top of everything else. I don't remember when I have felt so restless and discontented as this morning." "It's the Spring." "I suppose it is. I feel like doing something big and adventurous." "Well, do it then. You have a Morning Post on the table. Have you read it yet?" "I glanced at it." "But you haven't read the advertisement pages? Read them. They may contain just the opening you want." "Well, I'll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages is that they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend you any sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note of hand only. However, I will scan them." Joan rose and held out her hand. "Good-by, Mr. Marson. You've got your detective story to write, and I have to think out something with a duke in it by to-night; so I must be going." She smiled. "We have traveled a good way from the point where we started, but I may as well go back to it before I leave you. I'm sorry I laughed at you this morning." Ashe clasped her hand in a fervent grip. "I'm not. Come and laugh at me whenever you feel like it. I like being laughed at. Why, when I started my morning exercises, half of London used to come and roll about the sidewalks in convulsions. I'm not an attraction any longer and it makes me feel lonesome. There are twenty-nine of those Larsen Exercises and you saw only part of the first. You have done so much for me that if I can be of any use to you, in helping you to greet the day with a smile, I shall be only too proud. Exercise Six is a sure-fire mirth-provoker; I'll start with it to-morrow morning. I can also recommend Exercise Eleven--a scream! Don't miss it." "Very well. Well, good-by for the present." "Good-by." She was gone; and Ashe, thrilling with new emotions, stared at the door which had closed behind her. He felt as though he had been wakened from sleep by a powerful electric shock. Close beside the sheet of paper on which he had inscribed the now luminous and suggestive title of his new Gridley Quayle story lay the Morning Post, the advertisement columns of which he had promised her to explore. The least he could do was to begin at once. His spirits sank as he did so. It was the same old game. A Mr. Brian MacNeill, though doing no business with minors, was willing--even anxious--to part with his vast fortune to anyone over the age of twenty-one whose means happened to be a trifle straitened. This good man required no security whatever; nor did his rivals in generosity, the Messrs. Angus Bruce, Duncan Macfarlane, Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They, too, showed a curious distaste for dealing with minors; but anyone of maturer years could simply come round to the office and help himself. Ashe threw the paper down wearily. He had known all along that it was no good. Romance was dead and the unexpected no longer happened. He picked up his pen and began to write "The Adventure of the Wand of Death." CHAPTER II In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph in Piccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, with his knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with the glare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he had was suffering. He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wake up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see the sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then--you remember. "Oh, dash it!" said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment's pause: "And I was feeling so dashed happy!" For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad meditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at his side, he asked for a number. "Hello!" "Hello!" responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire. "Oh, I say! Is that you, Dickie?" "Who is that?" "This is Freddie Threepwood. I say, Dickie, old top, I want to see you about something devilish important. Will you be in at twelve?" "Certainly. What's the trouble?" "I can't explain over the wire; but it's deuced serious." "Very well. By the way, Freddie, congratulations on the engagement." "Thanks, old man. Thanks very much, and so on--but you won't forget to be in at twelve, will you? Good-by." He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for he had heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he was giving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time in beginning his toilet for the day. An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered. He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor. "Are you only just getting up, Frederick?" "Hello, gov'nor. Good morning. I shan't be two ticks now." "You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day is glorious." "Shan't be more than a minute, gov'nor, now. Just got to have a tub and then chuck on a few clothes." He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressed annoyance. Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had suffered much through that problem which, with the exception of Mr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British aristocratic amber--the problem of what to do with the younger sons. It is useless to try to gloss over the fact--in the aristocratic families of Great Britain the younger son is not required. Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, as such, a nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had always annoyed his father in a variety of ways. The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply; but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, a perseverance, about his irritating performances that had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to Eton. He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming the streets of Windsor in a false mustache. He had been sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story window on the junior dean of his college. He had spent two years at an expensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the army. He had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of friends--for the most part vaguely connected with the turf--as any young man of his age ever contrived to collect. These things try the most placid of parents; and finally Lord Emsworth had put his foot down. It was the only occasion in his life when he had acted with decision, and he did it with the accumulated energy of years. He stopped his son's allowance, haled him home to Blandings Castle, and kept him there so relentlessly that until the previous night, when they had come up together by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen London for nearly a year. Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secret troubles, he was at any rate once more in his beloved metropolis that caused Freddie at this point to burst into discordant song. He splashed and warbled simultaneously. Lord Emsworth's frown deepened and he began to tap his fingers together irritably. Then his brow cleared and a pleased smile flickered over his face. He, too, had remembered. What Lord Emsworth remembered was this: Late in the previous autumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by an American, a Mr. Peters--a man with many millions, chronic dyspepsia, and one fair daughter--Aline. The two families had met. Freddie and Aline had been thrown together; and, only a few days before, the engagement had been announced. And for Lord Emsworth the only flaw in this best of all possible worlds had been removed. Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to Aline Peters. He liked Aline. He liked Mr. Peters. Such was the relief he experienced that he found himself feeling almost affectionate toward Freddie, who emerged from the bathroom at this moment, clad in a pink bathrobe, to find the paternal wrath evaporated, and all, so to speak, right with the world. Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing. He was always ill at ease in his father's presence and he wished to be elsewhere with all possible speed. He sprang into his trousers with such energy that he nearly tripped himself up. As he disentangled himself he recollected something that had slipped his memory. "By the way, gov'nor, I met an old pal of mine last night and asked him down to Blandings this week. That's all right, isn't it? He's a man named Emerson, an American. He knows Aline quite well, he says--has known her since she was a kid." "I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson." "Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first time. But it's all right. He's a good chap, don't you know! --and all that sort of rot." Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objections he certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny. "Certainly; let him come if he wishes." "Thanks, gov'nor." Freddie completed his toilet. "Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thought of getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit. Have you had breakfast?" "Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling you will find time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall be going there directly after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show me his collection of--I think scarabs was the word he used." "Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'll call the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well, I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit of breakfast--what?" Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's allusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy." Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the ideal attitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to be a lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simply another manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case it was not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism. Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they passed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they parted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter about the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always a trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and the city held no fascinations for him. * * * On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the streets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames Embankment, there is a door that would be all the better for a lick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest and unostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimy ground-glass displays the words: R. JONES Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity. You wonder, as you look at it--if you have time to look at and wonder about these things--who this Jones may be; and what is the business he conducts with such coy reticence. As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through suspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken not a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that he bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking during the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money, Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presently dismissed him from its thoughts. On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it is the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that the "fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights," are harmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He was infinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district of London. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walked upstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactless friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than his walking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was recognized that nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than to tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt, should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it. R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve complexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more jovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by envious intimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, specially with young men of the upper classes, with large purses and small foreheads--was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There was something about his comfortable appearance and his jolly manner that irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It was his good fortune that this type of young man should be the type financially most worth attracting. Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short but crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at the Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie's estimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend which he held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie's stamp. That was why, at twelve o'clock punctually on this Spring day, he tapped with his cane on R. Jones' ground glass, and showed such satisfaction and relief when the door was opened by the proprietor in person. "Well, well, well!" said R. Jones rollickingly. "Whom have we here? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!" R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie was about to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The sudden turning off of the tap from which Freddie's allowance had flowed had hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; but few so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of his prosperity. "The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold after all this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie. The old gov'nor put his foot down--didn't he?--and stopped the funds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bit since the engagement was announced--eh?" Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily. "Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top," he said, "not so that you could notice it, don't you know! Things are still pretty much the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night, because the gov'nor had to come to London; but I've got to go back with him on the three-o'clock train. And, as for money, I can't get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I'm in the deuce of a hole; and that's why I've come to you." Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones' face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times and losses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. As Scotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but he did not lend it to youths in Freddie's unfortunate position. "Oh, I don't want to make a touch, you know," Freddie hastened to explain. "It isn't that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raise five hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough." "Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genial once more. The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lender who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom. Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from it extracted a newspaper clipping. "Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you know?" "Percy?" "Lord Stockheath, you know." "Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that. I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle. "Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They read them out in court; and of all--" "Don't, old man! Dickie, old top--please! I know all about it. I read the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absolute ass." "Well, Nature had done that already; but I'm bound to say they improved on Nature's work. I should think your Cousin Percy must have felt like a plucked chicken." A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie's vacant face. He wriggled in his chair. "Dickie, old man, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. It makes me feel ill." "Why, is he such a pal of yours as all that?" "It's not that. It's--the fact is, Dickie, old top, I'm in exactly the same bally hole as poor old Percy was, myself!" "What! You have been sued for breach of promise?" "Not absolutely that--yet. Look here; I'll tell you the whole thing. Do you remember a show at the Piccadilly about a year ago called "The Baby Doll"? There was a girl in the chorus." "Several--I remember noticing." "No; I mean one particular girl--a girl called Joan Valentine. The rotten part is that I never met her." "Pull yourself together, Freddie. What exactly is the trouble?" "Well--don't you see?--I used to go to the show every other night, and I fell frightfully in love with this girl--" "Without having met her?" "Yes. You see, I was rather an ass in those days." "No, no!" said R. Jones handsomely. "I must have been or I shouldn't have been such an ass, don't you know! Well, as I was saying, I used to write this girl letters, saying how much I was in love with her; and--and--" "Specifically proposing marriage?" "I can't remember. I expect I did. I was awfully in love." "How was that if you never met her?" "She wouldn't meet me. She wouldn't even come out to luncheon. She didn't even answer my letters--just sent word down by the Johnny at the stage door. And then----" Freddie's voice died away. He thrust the knob of his cane into his mouth in a sort of frenzy. "What then?" inquired R. Jones. A scarlet blush manifested itself on Freddie's young face. His eyes wandered sidewise. After a long pause a single word escaped him, almost inaudible: "Poetry!" R. Jones trembled as though an electric current had been passed through his plump frame. His little eyes sparkled with merriment. "You wrote her poetry!" "Yards of it, old boy--yards of it!" groaned Freddie. Panic filled him with speech. "You see the frightful hole I'm in? This girl is bound to have kept the letters. I don't remember whether I actually proposed to her or not; but anyway she's got enough material to make it worth while to have a dash at an action--especially after poor old Percy has just got soaked for such a pile of money and made breach-of-promise cases the fashion, so to speak. "And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she's certain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for something of the sort. Don't you see that all the cards are in her hands? We couldn't afford to let the thing come into court. That poetry would dish my marriage for a certainty. I'd have to emigrate or something! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My old gov'nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I'm in, don't you, Dickie, old man?" "And what do you want me to do?" "Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters--don't you see? I can't do it myself, cooped up miles away in the country. And besides, I shouldn't know how to handle a thing like that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and a persuasive sort of way with him." "Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine that something a little more solid than a persuasive way would be required in a case like this. You said something a while ago about five hundred pounds?" "Here it is, old man--in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will you really take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for five hundred?" "I can have a try." Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness on his face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in some of their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. Scotland Yard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was all that was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones' hand several times in his emotion. "That's absolutely topping of you, old man!" he said. "Then I'll leave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have done anything, won't you? Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!" The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers straying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling of complete happiness warmed R. Jones' bosom. He was uncertain whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be truthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he was certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap. CHAPTER III The Earl of Emsworth stood in the doorway of the Senior Conservative Club's vast diningroom, and beamed with a vague sweetness on the two hundred or so Senior Conservatives who, with much clattering of knives and forks, were keeping body and soul together by means of the coffee-room luncheon. He might have been posing for a statue of Amiability. His pale blue eyes shone with a friendly light through their protecting glasses; the smile of a man at peace with all men curved his weak mouth; his bald head, reflecting the sunlight, seemed almost to wear a halo. Nobody appeared to notice him. He so seldom came to London these days that he was practically a stranger in the club; and in any case your Senior Conservative, when at lunch, has little leisure for observing anything not immediately on the table in front of him. To attract attention in the dining-room of the Senior Conservative Club between the hours of one and two-thirty, you have to be a mutton chop--not an earl. It is possible that, lacking the initiative to make his way down the long aisle and find a table for himself, he might have stood there indefinitely, but for the restless activity of Adams, the head steward. It was Adams' mission in life to flit to and fro, hauling would-be lunchers to their destinations, as a St. Bernard dog hauls travelers out of Alpine snowdrifts. He sighted Lord Emsworth and secured him with a genteel pounce. "A table, your lordship? This way, your lordship." Adams remembered him, of course. Adams remembered everybody. Lord Emsworth followed him beamingly and presently came to anchor at a table in the farther end of the room. Adams handed him the bill of fare and stood brooding over him like a providence. "Don't often see your lordship in the club," he opened chattily. It was business to know the tastes and dispositions of all the five thousand or so members of the Senior Conservative Club and to suit his demeanor to them. To some he would hand the bill of fare swiftly, silently, almost brusquely, as one who realizes that there are moments in life too serious for talk. Others, he knew, liked conversation; and to those he introduced the subject of food almost as a sub-motive. Lord Emsworth, having examined the bill of fare with a mild curiosity, laid it down and became conversational. "No, Adams; I seldom visit London nowadays. London does not attract me. The country--the fields--the woods--the birds----" Something across the room seemed to attract his attention and his voice trailed off. He inspected this for some time with bland interest, then turned to Adams once more. "What was I saying, Adams?" "The birds, your lordship." "Birds! What birds? What about birds?" "You were speaking of the attractions of life in the country, your lordship. You included the birds in your remarks." "Oh, yes, yes, yes! Oh, yes, yes! Oh, yes--to be sure. Do you ever go to the country, Adams?" "Generally to the seashore, your lordship--when I take my annual vacation." Whatever was the attraction across the room once more exercised its spell. His lordship concentrated himself on it to the exclusion of all other mundane matters. Presently he came out of his trance again. "What were you saying, Adams?" "I said that I generally went to the seashore, your lordship." "Eh? When?" "For my annual vacation, your lordship." "Your what?" "My annual vacation, your lordship." "What about it?" Adams never smiled during business hours--unless professionally, as it were, when a member made a joke; but he was storing up in the recesses of his highly respectable body a large laugh, to be shared with his wife when he reached home that night. Mrs. Adams never wearied of hearing of the eccentricities of the members of the club. It occurred to Adams that he was in luck to-day. He was expecting a little party of friends to supper that night, and he was a man who loved an audience. You would never have thought it, to look at him when engaged in his professional duties, but Adams had built up a substantial reputation as a humorist in his circle by his imitations of certain members of the club; and it was a matter of regret to him that he got so few opportunities nowadays of studying the absent-minded Lord Emsworth. It was rare luck--his lordship coming in to-day, evidently in his best form. "Adams, who is the gentleman over by the window--the gentleman in the brown suit?" "That is Mr. Simmonds, your lordship. He joined us last year." "I never saw a man take such large mouthfuls. Did you ever see a man take such large mouthfuls, Adams?" Adams refrained from expressing an opinion, but inwardly he was thrilling with artistic fervor. Mr. Simmonds eating, was one of his best imitations, though Mrs. Adams was inclined to object to it on the score that it was a bad example for the children. To be privileged to witness Lord Emsworth watching and criticizing Mr. Simmonds was to collect material for a double-barreled character study that would assuredly make the hit of the evening. "That man," went on Lord Emsworth, "is digging his grave with his teeth. Digging his grave with his teeth, Adams! Do you take large mouthfuls, Adams?" "No, your lordship." "Quite right. Very sensible of you, Adams--very sensible of you. Very sen---- What was I saying, Adams?" "About my not taking large mouthfuls, your lordship." "Quite right--quite right! Never take large mouthfuls, Adams. Never gobble. Have you any children, Adams?" "Two, your lordship." "I hope you teach them not to gobble. They pay for it in later life. Americans gobble when young and ruin their digestions. My American friend, Mr. Peters, suffers terribly from indigestion." Adams lowered his voice to a confidential murmur: "If you will pardon the liberty, your lordship--I saw it in the paper--" "About Mr. Peters' indigestion?" "About Miss Peters, your lordship, and the Honorable Frederick. May I be permitted to offer my congratulations?" "Eh, Oh, yes--the engagement. Yes, yes, yes! Yes--to be sure. Yes; very satisfactory in every respect. High time he settled down and got a little sense. I put it to him straight. I cut off his allowance and made him stay at home. That made him think--lazy young devil!" Lord Emsworth had his lucid moments; and in the one that occurred now it came home to him that he was not talking to himself, as he had imagined, but confiding intimate family secrets to the head steward of his club's dining-room. He checked himself abruptly, and with a slight decrease of amiability fixed his gaze on the bill of fare and ordered cold beef. For an instant he felt resentful against Adams for luring him on to soliloquize; but the next moment his whole mind was gripped by the fascinating spectacle of Mr. Simmonds dealing with a wedge of Stilton cheese, and Adams was forgotten. The cold beef had the effect of restoring his lordship to complete amiability, and when Adams in the course of his wanderings again found himself at the table he was once more disposed for light conversation. "So you saw the news of the engagement in the paper, did you, Adams?" "Yes, your lordship, in the Mail. It had quite a long piece about it. And the Honorable Frederick's photograph and the young lady's were in the Mirror. Mrs. Adams clipped them out and put them in an album, knowing that your lordship was a member of ours. If I may say so, your lordship--a beautiful young lady." "Devilish attractive, Adams--and devilish rich. Mr. Peters is a millionaire, Adams." "So I read in the paper, your lordship." "Damme! They all seem to be millionaires in America. Wish I knew how they managed it. Honestly, I hope. Mr. Peters is an honest man, but his digestion is bad. He used to bolt his food. You don't bolt your food, I hope, Adams?" "No, your lordship; I am most careful." "The late Mr. Gladstone used to chew each mouthful thirty-three times. Deuced good notion if you aren't in a hurry. What cheese would you recommend, Adams?" "The gentlemen are speaking well of the Gorgonzola." "All right, bring me some. You know, Adams, what I admire about Americans is their resource. Mr. Peters tells me that as a boy of eleven he earned twenty dollars a week selling mint to saloon keepers, as they call publicans over there. Why they wanted mint I cannot recollect. Mr. Peters explained the reason to me and it seemed highly plausible at the time; but I have forgotten it. Possibly for mint sauce. It impressed me, Adams. Twenty dollars is four pounds. I never earned four pounds a week when I was a boy of eleven; in fact, I don't think I ever earned four pounds a week. His story impressed me, Adams. Every man ought to have an earning capacity. I was so struck with what he told me that I began to paint." "Landscapes, your lordship?" "Furniture. It is unlikely that I shall ever be compelled to paint furniture for a living, but it is a consolation to me to feel that I could do so if called on. There is a fascination about painting furniture, Adams. I have painted the whole of my bedroom at Blandings and am now engaged on the museum. You would be surprised at the fascination of it. It suddenly came back to me the other day that I had been inwardly longing to mess about with paints and things since I was a boy. They stopped me when I was a boy. I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick--Tell me, Adams, have I eaten my cheese?" "Not yet, your lordship. I was about to send the waiter for it." "Never mind. Tell him to bring the bill instead. I remember that I have an appointment. I must not be late." "Shall I take the fork, your lordship?" "The fork?" "Your lordship has inadvertently put a fork in your coat pocket." Lord Emsworth felt in the pocket indicated, and with the air of an inexpert conjurer whose trick has succeeded contrary to his expectations produced a silver-plated fork. He regarded it with surprise; then he looked wonderingly at Adams. "Adams, I'm getting absent-minded. Have you ever noticed any traces of absent-mindedness in me before?" "Oh, no, your lordship." "Well, it's deuced peculiar! I have no recollection whatsoever of placing that fork in my pocket . . . Adams, I want a taxicab." He glanced round the room, as though expecting to locate one by the fireplace. "The hall porter will whistle one for you, your lordship." "So he will, by George!--so he will! Good day, Adams." "Good day, your lordship." The Earl of Emsworth ambled benevolently to the door, leaving Adams with the feeling that his day had been well-spent. He gazed almost with reverence after the slow-moving figure. "What a nut!" said Adams to his immortal soul. Wafted through the sunlit streets in his taxicab, the Earl of Emsworth smiled benevolently on London's teeming millions. He was as completely happy as only a fluffy-minded old man with excellent health and a large income can be. Other people worried about all sorts of things--strikes, wars, suffragettes, the diminishing birth rate, the growing materialism of the age, a score of similar subjects. Worrying, indeed, seemed to be the twentieth-century specialty. Lord Emsworth never worried. Nature had equipped him with a mind so admirably constructed for withstanding the disagreeableness of life that if an unpleasant thought entered it, it passed out again a moment later. Except for a few of life's fundamental facts, such as that his check book was in the right-hand top drawer of his desk; that the Honorable Freddie Threepwood was a young idiot who required perpetual restraint; and that when in doubt about anything he had merely to apply to his secretary, Rupert Baxter--except for these basic things, he never remembered anything for more than a few minutes. At Eton, in the sixties, they had called him Fathead. His was a life that lacked, perhaps, the sublimer emotions which raise man to the level of the gods; but undeniably it was an extremely happy one. He never experienced the thrill of ambition fulfilled; but, on the other hand, he never knew the agony of ambition frustrated. His name, when he died, would not live forever in England's annals; he was spared the pain of worrying about this by the fact that he had no desire to live forever in England's annals. He was possibly as nearly contented as a human being could be in this century of alarms and excursions. Indeed, as he bowled along in his cab and reflected that a really charming girl, not in the chorus of any West End theater, a girl with plenty of money and excellent breeding, had--in a moment, doubtless, of mental aberration--become engaged to be married to the Honorable Freddie, he told himself that life at last was absolutely without a crumpled rose leaf. The cab drew up before a house gay with flowered window boxes. Lord Emsworth paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk looking up at this cheerful house, trying to remember why on earth he had told the man to drive there. A few moments' steady thought gave him the answer to the riddle. This was Mr. Peters' town house, and he had come to it by invitation to look at Mr. Peters' collection of scarabs. To be sure! He remembered now--his collection of scarabs. Or was it Arabs? Lord Emsworth smiled. Scarabs, of course. You couldn't collect Arabs. He wondered idly, as he rang the bell, what scarabs might be; but he was interested in a fluffy kind of way in all forms of collecting, and he was very pleased to have the opportunity of examining these objects; whatever they were. He rather thought they were a kind of fish. There are men in this world who cannot rest; who are so constituted that they can only take their leisure in the shape of a change of work. To this fairly numerous class belonged Mr. J. Preston Peters, father of Freddie's Aline. And to this merit--or defect--is to be attributed his almost maniacal devotion to that rather unattractive species of curio, the Egyptian scarab. Five years before, a nervous breakdown had sent Mr. Peters to a New York specialist. The specialist had grown rich on similar cases and his advice was always the same. He insisted on Mr. Peters taking up a hobby. "What sort of a hobby?" inquired Mr. Peters irritably. His digestion had just begun to trouble him at the time, and his temper now was not of the best. "Now my hobby," said the specialist, "is the collecting of scarabs. Why should you not collect scarabs?" "Because," said Mr. Peters, "I shouldn't know one if you brought it to me on a plate. What are scarabs?" "Scarabs," said the specialist, warming to his subject, "the Egyptian hieroglyphs." "And what," inquired Mr. Peters, "are Egyptian hieroglyphs?" The specialist began to wonder whether it would not have been better to advise Mr. Peters to collect postage stamps. "A scarab," he said--"derived from the Latin scarabeus--is literally a beetle." "I will not collect beetles!" said Mr. Peters definitely. "They give me the Willies." "Scarabs are Egyptian symbols in the form of beetles," the specialist hurried on. "The most common form of scarab is in the shape of a ring. Scarabs were used for seals. They were also employed as beads or ornaments. Some scarabaei bear inscriptions having reference to places; as, for instance: 'Memphis is mighty forever.'" Mr. Peters' scorn changed to active interest. "Have you got one like that?" "Like what?" "A scarab boosting Memphis. It's my home town." "I think it possible that some other Memphis was alluded to." "There isn't any other except the one in Tennessee," said Mr. Peters patriotically. The specialist owed the fact that he was a nerve doctor instead of a nerve patient to his habit of never arguing with his visitors. "Perhaps," he said, "you would care to glance at my collection. It is in the next room." That was the beginning of Mr. Peters' devotion to scarabs. At first he did his collecting without any love of it, partly because he had to collect something or suffer, but principally because of a remark the specialist made as he was leaving the room. "How long would it take me to get together that number of the things?" Mr. Peters inquired, when, having looked his fill on the dullest assortment of objects he remembered ever to have seen, he was preparing to take his leave. The specialist was proud of his collection. "How long? To make a collection as large as mine? Years, Mr. Peters. Oh, many, many years." "I'll bet you a hundred dollars I'll do it in six months!" From that moment Mr. Peters brought to the collecting of scarabs the same furious energy which had given him so many dollars and so much indigestion. He went after scarabs like a dog after rats. He scooped in scarabs from the four corners of the earth, until at the end of a year he found himself possessed of what, purely as regarded quantity, was a record collection. This marked the end of the first phase of--so to speak--the scarabaean side of his life. Collecting had become a habit with him, but he was not yet a real enthusiast. It occurred to him that the time had arrived for a certain amount of pruning and elimination. He called in an expert and bade him go through the collection and weed out what he felicitously termed the "dead ones." The expert did his job thoroughly. When he had finished, the collection was reduced to a mere dozen specimens. "The rest," he explained, "are practically valueless. If you are thinking of making a collection that will have any value in the eyes of archeologists I should advise you to throw them away. The remaining twelve are good." "How do you mean--good? Why is one of these things valuable and another so much punk? They all look alike to me." And then the expert talked to Mr. Peters for nearly two hours about the New Kingdom, the Middle Kingdom, Osiris, Ammon, Mut, Bubastis, dynasties, Cheops, the Hyksos kings, cylinders, bezels, Amenophis III, Queen Taia, the Princess Gilukhipa of Mitanni, the lake of Zarukhe, Naucratis, and the Book of the Dead. He did it with a relish. He liked to do it. When he had finished, Mr. Peters thanked him and went to the bathroom, where he bathed his temples with eau de Cologne. That talk changed J. Preston Peters from a supercilious scooper-up of random scarabs to what might be called a genuine scarab fan. It does not matter what a man collects; if Nature has given him the collector's mind he will become a fanatic on the subject of whatever collection he sets out to make. Mr. Peters had collected dollars; he began to collect scarabs with precisely the same enthusiasm. He would have become just as enthusiastic about butterflies or old china if he had turned his thoughts to them; but it chanced that what he had taken up was the collecting of the scarab, and it gripped him more and more as the years went on. Gradually he came to love his scarabs with that love, surpassing the love of women, which only collectors know. He became an expert on those curious relics of a dead civilization. For a time they ran neck and neck in his thoughts with business. When he retired from business he was free to make them the master passion of his life. He treasured each individual scarab in his collection as a miser treasures gold. Collecting, as Mr. Peters did it, resembles the drink habit. It begins as an amusement and ends as an obsession. He was gloating over his treasures when the maid announced Lord Emsworth. A curious species of mutual toleration--it could hardly be dignified by the title of friendship--had sprung up between these two men, so opposite in practically every respect. Each regarded the other with that feeling of perpetual amazement with which we encounter those whose whole viewpoint and mode of life is foreign to our own. The American's force and nervous energy fascinated Lord Emsworth. As for Mr. Peters, nothing like the earl had ever happened to him before in a long and varied life. Each, in fact, was to the other a perpetual freak show, with no charge for admission. And if anything had been needed to cement the alliance it would have been supplied by the fact that they were both collectors. They differed in collecting as they did in everything else. Mr. Peters' collecting, as has been shown, was keen, furious, concentrated; Lord Emsworth's had the amiable dodderingness that marked every branch of his life. In the museum at Blandings Castle you could find every manner of valuable and valueless curio. There was no central motive; the place was simply an amateur junk shop. Side by side with a Gutenberg Bible for which rival collectors would have bidden without a limit, you would come on a bullet from the field of Waterloo, one of a consignment of ten thousand shipped there for the use of tourists by a Birmingham firm. Each was equally attractive to its owner. "My dear Mr. Peters," said Lord Emsworth sunnily, advancing into the room, "I trust I am not unpunctual. I have been lunching at my club." "I'd have asked you to lunch here," said Mr. Peters, "but you know how it is with me . . . I've promised the doctor I'll give those nuts and grasses of his a fair trial, and I can do it pretty well when I'm alone with Aline; but to have to sit by and see somebody else eating real food would be trying me too high." Lord Emsworth murmured sympathetically. The other's digestive tribulations touched a ready chord. An excellent trencherman himself, he understood what Mr. Peters must suffer. "Too bad!" he said. Mr. Peters turned the conversation into other channels. "These are my scarabs," he said. Lord Emsworth adjusted his glasses, and the mild smile disappeared from his face, to be succeeded by a set look. A stage director of a moving-picture firm would have recognized the look. Lord Emsworth was registering interest--interest which he perceived from the first instant would have to be completely simulated; for instinct told him, as Mr. Peters began to talk, that he was about to be bored as he had seldom been bored in his life. Mr. Peters, in his character of showman, threw himself into his work with even more than his customary energy. His flow of speech never faltered. He spoke of the New Kingdom, the Middle Kingdom, Osiris and Ammon; waxed eloquent concerning Mut, Bubastis, Cheops, the Hyksos kings, cylinders, bezels and Amenophis III; and became at times almost lyrical when touching on Queen Taia, the Princess Gilukhipa of Mitanni, the lake of Zarukhe, Naucratis and the Book of the Dead. Time slid by. "Take a look at this, Lord Emsworth." As one who, brooding on love or running over business projects in his mind, walks briskly into a lamppost and comes back to the realities of life with a sense of jarring shock, Lord Emsworth started, blinked and returned to consciousness. Far away his mind had been--seventy miles away--in the pleasant hothouses and shady garden walks of Blandings Castle. He came back to London to find that his host, with a mingled air of pride and reverence, was extending toward him a small, dingy-looking something. He took it and looked at it. That, apparently, was what he was meant to do. So far, all was well. "Ah!" he said--that blessed word; covering everything! He repeated it, pleased at his ready resource. "A Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty," said Mr. Peters fervently. "I beg your pardon?" "A Cheops--of the Fourth Dynasty." Lord Emsworth began to feel like a hunted stag. He could not go on saying "Ah!" indefinitely; yet what else was there to say to this curious little beastly sort of a beetle kind of thing? "Dear me! A Cheops!" "Of the Fourth Dynasty!" "Bless my soul! The Fourth Dynasty!" "What do you think of that--eh?" Strictly speaking, Lord Emsworth thought nothing of it; and he was wondering how to veil this opinion in diplomatic words, when the providence that looks after all good men saved him by causing a knock at the door to occur. In response to Mr. Peters' irritated cry a maid entered. "If you please, sir, Mr. Threepwood wishes to speak with you on the telephone." Mr. Peters turned to his guest. "Excuse me for one moment." "Certainly," said Lord Emsworth gratefully. "Certainly, certainly, certainly! By all means." The door closed behind Mr. Peters. Lord Emsworth was alone. For some moments he stood where he had been left, a figure with small signs of alertness about it. But Mr. Peters did not return immediately. The booming of his voice came faintly from some distant region. Lord Emsworth strolled to the window and looked out. The sun still shone brightly on the quiet street. Across the road were trees. Lord Emsworth was fond of trees; he looked at these approvingly. Then round the corner came a vagrom man, wheeling flowers in a barrow. Flowers! Lord Emsworth's mind shot back to Blandings like a homing pigeon. Flowers! Had he or had he not given Head Gardener Thorne adequate instructions as to what to do with those hydrangeas? Assuming that he had not, was Thorne to be depended on to do the right thing by them by the light of his own intelligence? Lord Emsworth began to brood on Head Gardener Thorne. He was aware of some curious little object in his hand. He accorded it a momentary inspection. It had no message for him. It was probably something; but he could not remember what. He put it in his pocket and returned to his meditations. * * * At about the hour when the Earl of Emsworth was driving to keep his appointment with Mr. Peters, a party of two sat at a corner table at Simpson's Restaurant, in the Strand. One of the two was a small, pretty, good-natured-looking girl of about twenty; the other, a thick-set young man, with a wiry crop of red-brown hair and an expression of mingled devotion and determination. The girl was Aline Peters; the young man's name was George Emerson. He, also, was an American, a rising member in a New York law firm. He had a strong, square face, with a dogged and persevering chin. There are all sorts of restaurants in London, from the restaurant which makes you fancy you are in Paris to the restaurant which makes you wish you were. There are palaces in Piccadilly, quaint lethal chambers in Soho, and strange food factories in Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. There are restaurants which specialize in ptomaine and restaurants which specialize in sinister vegetable messes. But there is only one Simpson's. Simpson's, in the Strand, is unique. Here, if he wishes, the Briton may for the small sum of half a dollar stupefy himself with food. The god of fatted plenty has the place under his protection. Its keynote is solid comfort. It is a pleasant, soothing, hearty place--a restful temple of food. No strident orchestra forces the diner to bolt beef in ragtime. No long central aisle distracts his attention with its stream of new arrivals. There he sits, alone with his food, while white-robed priests, wheeling their smoking trucks, move to and fro, ever ready with fresh supplies. All round the room--some at small tables, some at large tables --the worshipers sit, in their eyes that resolute, concentrated look which is the peculiar property of the British luncher, ex-President Roosevelt's man-eating fish, and the American army worm. Conversation does not flourish at Simpson's. Only two of all those present on this occasion showed any disposition toward chattiness. They were Aline Peters and her escort. "The girl you ought to marry," Aline was saying, "is Joan Valentine." "The girl I am going to marry," said George Emerson, "is Aline Peters." For answer, Aline picked up from the floor beside her an illustrated paper and, having opened it at a page toward the end, handed it across the table. George Emerson glanced at it disdainfully. There were two photographs on the page. One was of Aline; the other of a heavy, loutish-looking youth, who wore that expression of pained glassiness which Young England always adopts in the face of a camera. Under one photograph were printed the words: "Miss Aline Peters, who is to marry the Honorable Frederick Threepwood in June"; under the other: "The Honorable Frederick Threepwood, who is to marry Miss Aline Peters in June." Above the photographs was the legend: "Forthcoming International Wedding. Son of the Earl of Emsworth to marry American heiress." In one corner of the picture a Cupid, draped in the Stars and Stripes, aimed his bow at the gentleman; in the other another Cupid, clad in a natty Union Jack, was drawing a bead on the lady. The subeditor had done his work well. He had not been ambiguous. What he intended to convey to the reader was that Miss Aline Peters, of America, was going to marry the Honorable Frederick Threepwood, son of the Earl of Emsworth; and that was exactly the impression the average reader got. George Emerson, however, was not an average reader. The subeditor's work did not impress him. "You mustn't believe everything you see in the papers," he said. "What are the stout children in the one-piece bathing suits supposed to be doing?" "Those are Cupids, George, aiming at us with their little bow-- a pretty and original idea." "Why Cupids?" "Cupid is the god of love." "What has the god of love got to do with it?" Aline placidly devoured a fried potato. "You're simply trying to make me angry," she said; "and I call it very mean of you. You know perfectly well how fatal it is to get angry at meals. It was eating while he was in a bad temper that ruined father's digestion. George, that nice, fat carver is wheeling his truck this way. Flag him and make him give me some more of that mutton." George looked round him morosely. "This," he said, "is England--this restaurant, I mean. You don't need to go any farther. Just take a good look at this place and you have seen the whole country and can go home again. You may judge a country by its meals. A people with imagination will eat with imagination. Look at the French; look at ourselves. The Englishman loathes imagination. He goes to a place like this and says: 'Don't bother me to think. Here's half a dollar. Give me food--any sort of food--until I tell you to stop.' And that's the principle on which he lives his life. 'Give me anything, and don't bother me!' That's his motto." "If that was meant to apply to Freddie and me, I think you're very rude. Do you mean that any girl would have done for him, so long as it was a girl?" George Emerson showed a trace of confusion. Being honest with himself, he had to admit that he did not exactly know what he did mean--if he meant anything. That, he felt rather bitterly, was the worst of Aline. She would never let a fellow's good things go purely as good things; she probed and questioned and spoiled the whole effect. He was quite sure that when he began to speak he had meant something, but what it was escaped him for the moment. He had been urged to the homily by the fact that at a neighboring table he had caught sight of a stout young Briton, with a red face, who reminded him of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. He mentioned this to Aline. "Do you see that fellow in the gray suit--I think he has been sleeping in it--at the table on your right? Look at the stodgy face. See the glassy eye. If that man sandbagged your Freddie and tied him up somewhere, and turned up at the church instead of him, can you honestly tell me you would know the difference? Come, now, wouldn't you simply say, 'Why, Freddie, how natural you look!' and go through the ceremony without a suspicion?" "He isn't a bit like Freddie." "My dear girl, there isn't a man in this restaurant under the age of thirty who isn't just like Freddie. All Englishmen look exactly alike, talk exactly alike, and think exactly alike." "And you oughtn't to speak of him as Freddie. You don't know him." "Yes, I do. And, what is more, he expressly asked me to call him Freddie. 'Oh, dash it, old top, don't keep on calling me Threepwood! Freddie to pals!' Those were his very words." "George, you're making this up." "Not at all. We met last night at the National Sporting Club. Porky Jones was going twenty rounds with Eddie Flynn. I offered to give three to one on Eddie. Freddie, who was sitting next to me, took me in fivers. And if you want any further proof of your young man's pin-headedness; mark that! A child could have seen that Eddie had him going. Eddie comes from Pittsburgh--God bless it! My own home town!" "Did your Eddie win?" "You don't listen--I told you he was from Pittsburgh. And afterward Threepwood chummed up with me and told me that to real pals like me he was Freddie. I was a real pal, as I understood it, because I would have to wait for my money. The fact was, he explained, his old governor had cut off his bally allowance." "You're simply trying to poison my mind against him; and I don't think it's very nice of you, George." "What do you mean--poison your mind? I'm not poisoning your mind; I'm simply telling you a few things about him. You know perfectly well that you don't love him, and that you aren't going to marry him--and that you are going to marry me." "How do you know I don't love my Freddie?" "If you can look me straight in the eyes and tell me you do, I will drop the whole thing and put on a little page's dress and carry your train up the aisle. Now, then!" "And all the while you're talking you're letting my carver get away," said Aline. George called to the willing priest, who steered his truck toward them. Aline directed his dissection of the shoulder of mutton by word and gesture. "Enjoy yourself!" said Emerson coldly. "So I do, George; so I do. What excellent meat they have in England!" "It all comes from America," said George patriotically. "And, anyway, can't you be a bit more spiritual? I don't want to sit here discussing food products." "If you were in my position, George, you wouldn't want to talk about anything else. It's doing him a world of good, poor dear; but there are times when I'm sorry Father ever started this food-reform thing. You don't know what it means for a healthy young girl to try and support life on nuts and grasses." "And why should you?" broke out Emerson. "I'll tell you what it is, Aline--you are perfectly absurd about your father. I don't want to say anything against him to you, naturally; but--" "Go ahead, George. Why this diffidence? Say what you like." "Very well, then, I will. I'll give it to you straight. You know quite well that you have let your father bully you since you were in short frocks. I don't say it is your fault or his fault, or anybody's fault; I just state it as a fact. It's temperament, I suppose. You are yielding and he is aggressive; and he has taken advantage of it. "We now come to this idiotic Freddie-marriage business. Your father has forced you into that. It's all very well to say that you are a free agent and that fathers don't coerce their daughters nowadays. The trouble is that your father does. You let him do what he likes with you. He has got you hypnotized; and you won't break away from this Freddie foolishness because you can't find the nerve. I'm going to help you find the nerve. I'm coming down to Blandings Castle when you go there on Friday." "Coming to Blandings!" "Freddie invited me last night. I think it was done by way of interest on the money he owed me; but he did it and I accepted." "But, George, my dear boy, do you never read the etiquette books and the hints in the Sunday papers on how to be the perfect gentleman? Don't you know you can't be a man's guest and take advantage of his hospitality to try to steal his fiancee away from him?" "Watch me." A dreamy look came into Aline's eyes. "I wonder what it feels like, being a countess," she said. "You will never know." George looked at her pityingly. "My poor girl," he said, "have you been lured into this engagement in the belief that pop-eyed Frederick, the Idiot Child, is going to be an earl some day? You have been stung! Freddie is not the heir. His older brother, Lord Bosham, is as fit as a prize-fighter and has three healthy sons. Freddie has about as much chance of getting the title as I have." "George, your education has been sadly neglected. Don't you know that the heir to the title always goes on a yachting cruise, with his whole family, and gets drowned--and the children too? It happens in every English novel you read." "Listen, Aline! Let us get this thing straight: I have been in love with you since I wore knickerbockers. I proposed to you at your first dance--" "Very clumsily." "But sincerely. Last year, when I found that you had gone to England, I came on after you as soon as the firm could spare me. And I found you engaged to this Freddie excrescence." "I like the way you stand up for Freddie. So many men in your position might say horrid things about him." "Oh, I've nothing against Freddie. He is practically an imbecile and I don't like his face; outside of that he's all right. But you will be glad later that you did not marry him. You are much too real a person. What a wife you will make for a hard-working man!" "What does Freddie work hard at?" "I am alluding at the moment not to Freddie but to myself. I shall come home tired out. Maybe things will have gone wrong downtown. I shall be fagged, disheartened. And then you will come with your cool, white hands and, placing them gently on my forehead--" Aline shook her head. "It's no good, George. Really, you had better realize it. I'm very fond of you, but we are not suited!" "Why not?" "You are too overwhelming--too much like a bomb. I think you must be one of the supermen one reads about. You would want your own way and nothing but your own way. Now, Freddie will roll through hoops and sham dead, and we shall be the happiest pair in the world. I am much too placid and mild to make you happy. You want somebody who would stand up to you--somebody like Joan Valentine." "That's the second time you have mentioned this Joan Valentine. Who is she?" "She is a girl who was at school with me. We were the greatest chums--at least, I worshiped her and would have done anything for her; and I think she liked me. Then we lost touch with one another and didn't meet for years. I met her on the street yesterday, and she is just the same. She has been through the most awful times. Her father was quite rich; he died suddenly while he and Joan were in Paris, and she found that he hadn't left a cent. He had been living right up to his income all the time. His life wasn't even insured. She came to London; and, so far as I could make out from the short talk we had, she has done pretty nearly everything since we last met. She worked in a shop and went on the stage, and all sorts of things. Isn't it awful, George!" "Pretty tough," said Emerson. He was but faintly interested in Miss Valentine. "She is so plucky and full of life. She would stand up to you." "Thanks! My idea of marriage is not a perpetual scrap. My notion of a wife is something cozy and sympathetic and soothing. That is why I love you. We shall be the happiest--" Aline laughed. "Dear old George! Now pay the check and get me a taxi. I've endless things to do at home. If Freddie is in town I suppose he will be calling to see me. Who is Freddie, do you ask? Freddie is my fiance, George. My betrothed. My steady. The young man I'm going to marry." Emerson shook his head resignedly. "Curious how you cling to that Freddie idea. Never mind! I'll come down to Blandings on Friday and we shall see what happens. Bear in mind the broad fact that you and I are going to be married, and that nothing on earth is going to stop us." * * * It was Aline Peters who had to bear the brunt of her father's mental agony when he discovered, shortly after Lord Emsworth had left him, that the gem of his collection of scarabs had done the same. It is always the innocent bystander who suffers. "The darned old sneak thief!" said Mr. Peters. "Father!" "Don't sit there saying 'Father!' What's the use of saying 'Father!'? Do you think it is going to help--your saying 'Father!'? I'd rather the old pirate had taken the house and lot than that scarab. He knows what's what! Trust him to walk off with the pick of the whole bunch! I did think I could leave the father of the man who's going to marry my daughter for a second alone with the things. There's no morality among collectors--none! I'd trust a syndicate of Jesse James, Captain Kidd and Dick Turpin sooner than I would a collector. My Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty! I wouldn't have lost it for five thousand dollars!" "But, father, couldn't you write him a letter, asking for it back? He's such a nice old man! I'm sure he didn't mean to steal the scarab." Mr. Peters' overwrought soul blew off steam in the shape of a passionate snort. "Didn't mean to steal it! What do you think he meant to do--take it away and keep it safe for me for fear I should lose it? Didn't mean to steal it! Bet you he's well-known in society as a kleptomaniac. Bet you that when his name is announced his friends pick up their spoons and send in a hurry call to police headquarters for a squad to come and see that he doesn't sneak the front door. Of course he meant to steal it! He has a museum of his own down in the country. My Cheops is going to lend tone to that. I'd give five thousand dollars to get it back. If there's a man in this country with the spirit to break into that castle and steal that scarab and hand it back to me, there's five thousand waiting for him right here; and if he wants to he can knock that old safe blower on the head with a jimmy into the bargain." "But, father, why can't you simply go to him and say it's yours and that you must have it back?" "And have him come back at me by calling off this engagement of yours? Not if I know it! You can't go about the place charging a man with theft and ask him to go on being willing to have his son marry your daughter, can you? The slightest suggestion that I thought he had stolen this scarab and he would do the Proud Old English Aristocrat and end everything. He's in the strongest position a thief has ever been in. You can't get at him." "I didn't think of that." "You don't think at all. That's the trouble with you," said Mr. Peters. Years of indigestion had made Mr. Peters' temper, even when in a normal mood, perfectly impossible; in a crisis like this it ran amuck. He vented it on Aline because he had always vented his irritabilities on Aline; because the fact of her sweet, gentle disposition, combined with the fact of their relationship, made her the ideal person to receive the overflow of his black moods. While his wife had lived he had bullied her. On her death Aline had stepped into the vacant position. Aline did not cry, because she was not a girl who was given to tears; but, for all her placid good temper, she was wounded. She was a girl who liked everything in the world to run smoothly and easily, and these scenes with her father always depressed her. She took advantage of a lull in Mr. Peters' flow of words and slipped from the room. Her cheerfulness had received a shock. She wanted sympathy. She wanted comforting. For a moment she considered George Emerson in the role of comforter; but there were objections to George in this character. Aline was accustomed to tease and chat with George, but at heart she was a little afraid of him; and instinct told her that, as comforter, he would be too volcanic and supermanly for a girl who was engaged to marry another man in June. George, as comforter, would be far too prone to trust to action rather than to the soothing power of the spoken word. George's idea of healing the wound, she felt, would be to push her into a cab and drive to the nearest registrar's. No; she would not go to George. To whom, then? The vision of Joan Valentine came to her--of Joan as she had seen her yesterday, strong, cheerful, self-reliant, bearing herself, in spite of adversity, with a valiant jauntiness. Yes; she would go and see Joan. She put on her hat and stole from the house. Curiously enough, only a quarter of an hour before, R. Jones had set out with exactly the same object in view. * * * At almost exactly the hour when Aline Peters set off to visit her friend, Miss Valentine, three men sat in the cozy smoking-room of Blandings Castle. They were variously occupied. In the big chair nearest the door the Honorable Frederick Threepwood--Freddie to pals--was reading. Next to him sat a young man whose eyes, glittering through rimless spectacles, were concentrated on the upturned faces of several neat rows of playing cards--Rupert Baxter, Lord Emsworth's invaluable secretary, had no vices, but he sometimes relaxed his busy brain with a game of solitaire. Beyond Baxter, a cigar in his mouth and a weak highball at his side, the Earl of Emsworth took his ease. The book the Honorable Freddie was reading was a small paper-covered book. Its cover was decorated with a color scheme in red, black and yellow, depicting a tense moment in the lives of a man with a black beard, a man with a yellow beard, a man without any beard at all, and a young woman who, at first sight, appeared to be all eyes and hair. The man with the black beard, to gain some private end, had tied this young woman with ropes to a complicated system of machinery, mostly wheels and pulleys. The man with the yellow beard was in the act of pushing or pulling a lever. The beardless man, protruding through a trapdoor in the floor, was pointing a large revolver at the parties of the second part. Beneath this picture were the words: "Hands up, you scoundrels!" Above it, in a meandering scroll across the page, was: "Gridley Quayle, Investigator. The Adventure of the Secret Six. By Felix Clovelly." The Honorable Freddie did not so much read as gulp the adventure of the Secret Six. His face was crimson with excitement; his hair was rumpled; his eyes bulged. He was absorbed. This is peculiarly an age in which each of us may, if we do but search diligently, find the literature suited to his mental powers. Grave and earnest men, at Eton and elsewhere, had tried Freddie Threepwood with Greek, with Latin and with English; and the sheeplike stolidity with which he declined to be interested in the masterpieces of all three tongues had left them with the conviction that he would never read anything. And then, years afterward, he had suddenly blossomed out as a student--only, it is true, a student of the Adventures of Gridley Quayle; but still a student. His was a dull life and Gridley Quayle was the only person who brought romance into it. Existence for the Honorable Freddie was simply a sort of desert, punctuated with monthly oases in the shape of new Quayle adventures. It was his ambition to meet the man who wrote them. Lord Emsworth sat and smoked, and sipped and smoked again, at peace with all the world. His mind was as nearly a blank as it is possible for the human mind to be. The hand that had not the task of holding the cigar was at rest in his trousers pocket. The fingers of it fumbled idly with a small, hard object. Gradually it filtered into his lordship's mind that this small, hard object was not familiar. It was something new--something that was neither his keys nor his pencil; nor was it his small change. He yielded to a growing curiosity and drew it out. He examined it. It was a little something, rather like a fossilized beetle. It touched no chord in him. He looked at it with amiable distaste. "Now how in the world did that get there?" he said. The Honorable Freddie paid no attention to the remark. He was now at the very crest of his story, when every line intensified the thrill. Incident was succeeding incident. The Secret Six were here, there and everywhere, like so many malignant June bugs. Annabel, the heroine, was having a perfectly rotten time--kidnapped, and imprisoned every few minutes. Gridley Quayle, hot on the scent, was covering somebody or other with his revolver almost continuously. Freddie Threepwood had no time for chatting with his father. Not so Rupert Baxter. Chatting with Lord Emsworth was one of the things for which he received his salary. He looked up from his cards. "Lord Emsworth?" "I have found a curious object in my pocket, Baxter. I was wondering how it got there." He handed the thing to his secretary. Rupert Baxter's eyes lit up with sudden enthusiasm. He gasped. "Magnificent!" he cried. "Superb!" Lord Emsworth looked at him inquiringly. "It is a scarab, Lord Emsworth; and unless I am mistaken--and I think I may claim to be something of an expert--a Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty. A wonderful addition to your museum!" "Is it? By Gad! You don't say so, Baxter!" "It is, indeed. If it is not a rude question, how much did you give for it, Lord Emsworth? It must have been the gem of somebody's collection. Was there a sale at Christie's this afternoon?" Lord Emsworth shook his head. "I did not get it at Christie's, for I recollect that I had an important engagement which prevented my going to Christie's. To be sure; yes--I had promised to call on Mr. Peters and examine his collection of--Now I wonder what it was that Mr. Peters said he collected!" "Mr. Peters is one of the best-known living collectors of scarabs." "Scarabs! You are quite right, Baxter. Now that I recall the episode, this is a scarab; and Mr. Peters gave it to me." "Gave it to you, Lord Emsworth?" "Yes. The whole scene comes back to me. Mr. Peters, after telling me a great many exceedingly interesting things about scarabs, which I regret to say I cannot remember, gave me this. And you say it is really valuable, Baxter?" "It is, from a collector's point of view, of extraordinary value." "Bless my soul!" Lord Emsworth beamed. "This is extremely interesting, Baxter. One has heard so much of the princely hospitality of Americans. How exceedingly kind of Mr. Peters! I shall certainly treasure it, though I must confess that from a purely spectacular standpoint it leaves me a little cold. However, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth--eh, Baxter?" From afar came the silver booming of a gong. Lord Emsworth rose. "Time to dress for dinner? I had no idea it was so late. Baxter, you will be going past the museum door. Will you be a good fellow and place this among the exhibits? You will know what to do with it better than I. I always think of you as the curator of my little collection, Baxter--ha-ha! Mind how you step when you are in the museum. I was painting a chair there yesterday and I think I left the paint pot on the floor." He cast a less amiable glance at his studious son. "Get up, Frederick, and go and dress for dinner. What is that trash you are reading?" The Honorable Freddie came out of his book much as a sleepwalker wakes--with a sense of having been violently assaulted. He looked up with a kind of stunned plaintiveness. "Eh, gov'nor?" "Make haste! Beach rang the gong five minutes ago. What is that you are reading?" "Oh, nothing, gov'nor--just a book." "I wonder you can waste your time on such trash. Make haste!" He turned to the door, and the benevolent expression once more wandered athwart his face. "Extremely kind of Mr. Peters!" he said. "Really, there is something almost Oriental in the lavish generosity of our American cousins." * * * It had taken R. Jones just six hours to discover Joan Valentine's address. That it had not taken him longer is a proof of his energy and of the excellence of his system of obtaining information; but R. Jones, when he considered it worth his while, could be extremely energetic, and he was a past master at the art of finding out things. He poured himself out of his cab and rang the bell of Number Seven. A disheveled maid answered the ring. "Miss Valentine in?" "Yes, sir." R. Jones produced his card. "On important business, tell her. Half a minute--I'll write it." He wrote the words on the card and devoted the brief period of waiting to a careful scrutiny of his surroundings. He looked out into the court and he looked as far as he could down the dingy passage; and the conclusions he drew from what he saw were complimentary to Miss Valentine. "If this girl is the sort of girl who would hold up Freddie's letters," he mused, "she wouldn't be living in a place like this. If she were on the make she would have more money than she evidently possesses. Therefore, she is not on the make; and I am prepared to bet that she destroyed the letters as fast as she got them." Those were, roughly, the thoughts of R. Jones as he stood in the doorway of Number Seven; and they were important thoughts inasmuch as they determined his attitude toward Joan in the approaching interview. He perceived that this matter must be handled delicately--that he must be very much the gentleman. It would be a strain, but he must do it. The maid returned and directed him to Joan's room with a brief word and a sweeping gesture. "Eh?" said R. Jones. "First floor?" "Front," said the maid. R. Jones trudged laboriously up the short flight of stairs. It was very dark on the stairs and he stumbled. Eventually, however, light came to him through an open door. Looking in, he saw a girl standing at the table. She had an air of expectation; so he deduced that he had reached his journey's end. "Miss Valentine?" "Please come in." R. Jones waddled in. "Not much light on your stairs." "No. Will you take a seat?" "Thanks." One glance at the girl convinced R. Jones that he had been right. Circumstances had made him a rapid judge of character, for in the profession of living by one's wits in a large city the first principle of offense and defense is to sum people up at first sight. This girl was not on the make. Joan Valentine was a tall girl with wheat-gold hair and eyes as brightly blue as a November sky when the sun is shining on a frosty world. There was in them a little of November's cold glitter, too, for Joan had been through much in the last few years; and experience, even though it does not harden, erects a defensive barrier between its children and the world. Her eyes were eyes that looked straight and challenged. They could thaw to the satin blue of the Mediterranean Sea, where it purrs about the little villages of Southern France; but they did not thaw for everybody. She looked what she was--a girl of action; a girl whom life had made both reckless and wary--wary of friendly advances, reckless when there was a venture afoot. Her eyes, as they met R. Jones' now, were cold and challenging. She, too, had learned the trick of swift diagnosis of character, and what she saw of R. Jones in that first glance did not impress her favorably. "You wished to see me on business?" "Yes," said R. Jones. "Yes. . . . Miss Valentine, may I begin by begging you to realize that I have no intention of insulting you?" Joan's eyebrows rose. For an instant she did her visitor the injustice of suspecting that he had been dining too well. "I don't understand." "Let me explain: I have come here," R. Jones went on, getting more gentlemanly every moment, "on a very distasteful errand, to oblige a friend. Will you bear in mind that whatever I say is said entirely on his behalf?" By this time Joan had abandoned the idea that this stout person was a life-insurance tout, and was inclining to the view that he was collecting funds for a charity. "I came here at the request of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood." "I don't quite understand." "You never met him, Miss Valentine; but when you were in the chorus at the Piccadilly Theatre, I believe, he wrote you some very foolish letters. Possibly you have forgotten them?" "I certainly have." "You have probably destroyed them---eh?" "Certainly! I never keep letters. Why do you ask?" "Well, you see, Miss Valentine, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood is about to be married; and he thought that possibly, on the whole, it would be better that the letters--and poetry--which he wrote you were nonexistent." Not all R. Jones' gentlemanliness--and during this speech he diffused it like a powerful scent in waves about him--could hide the unpleasant meaning of the words. "He was afraid I might try to blackmail him?" said Joan, with formidable calm. R. Jones raised and waved a fat hand deprecatingly. "My dear Miss Valentine!" Joan rose and R. Jones followed her example. The interview was plainly at an end. "Please tell Mr. Threepwood to make his mind quite easy. He is in no danger." "Exactly--exactly; precisely! I assured Threepwood that my visit here would be a mere formality. I was quite sure you had no intention whatever of worrying him. I may tell him definitely, then, that you have destroyed the letters?" "Yes. Good-evening." "Good-evening, Miss Valentine." The closing of the door behind him left him in total darkness, but he hardly liked to return and ask Joan to reopen it in order to light him on his way. He was glad to be out of her presence. He was used to being looked at in an unfriendly way by his fellows, but there had been something in Joan's eyes that had curiously discomfited him. R. Jones groped his way down, relieved that all was over and had ended well. He believed what she had told him, and he could conscientiously assure Freddie that the prospect of his sharing the fate of poor old Percy was nonexistent. It is true that he proposed to add in his report that the destruction of the letters had been purchased with difficulty, at a cost of just five hundred pounds; but that was a mere business formality. He had almost reached the last step when there was a ring at the front door. With what he was afterward wont to call an inspiration, he retreated with unusual nimbleness until he had almost reached Joan's door again. Then he leaned over the banister and listened. The disheveled maid opened the door. A girl's voice spoke: "Is Miss Valentine in?" "She's in; but she's engaged." "I wish you would go up and tell her that I want to see her. Say it's Miss Peters--Miss Aline Peters." The banister shook beneath R. Jones' sudden clutch. For a moment he felt almost faint. Then he began to think swiftly. A great light had dawned on him, and the thought outstanding in his mind was that never again would he trust a man or woman on the evidence of his senses. He could have sworn that this Valentine girl was on the level. He had been perfectly satisfied with her statement that she had destroyed the letters. And all the while she had been playing as deep a game as he had come across in the whole course of his professional career! He almost admired her. How she had taken him in! It was obvious now what her game was. Previous to his visit she had arranged a meeting with Freddie's fiancee, with the view of opening negotiations for the sale of the letters. She had held him, Jones, at arm's length because she was going to sell the letters to whoever would pay the best price. But for the accident of his happening to be here when Miss Peters arrived, Freddie and his fiancee would have been bidding against each other and raising each other's price. He had worked the same game himself a dozen times, and he resented the entry of female competition into what he regarded as essentially a male field of enterprise. As the maid stumped up the stairs he continued his retreat. He heard Joan's door open, and the stream of light showed him the disheveled maid standing in the doorway. "Ow, I thought there was a gentleman with you, miss." "He left a moment ago. Why?" "There's a lady wants to see you. Miss Peters, her name is." "Will you ask her to come up?" The disheveled maid was no polished mistress of ceremonies. She leaned down into the void and hailed Aline. "She says will you come up?" Aline's feet became audible on the staircase. There were greetings. "Whatever brings you here, Aline?" "Am I interrupting you, Joan, dear?" "No. Do come in! I was only surprised to see you so late. I didn't know you paid calls at this hour. Is anything wrong? Come in." The door closed, the maid retired to the depths, and R. Jones stole cautiously down again. He was feeling absolutely bewildered. Apparently his deductions, his second thoughts, had been all wrong, and Joan was, after all, the honest person he had imagined at first sight. Those two girls had talked to each other as though they were old friends; as though they had known each other all their lives. That was the thing which perplexed R. Jones. With the tread of a red Indian, he approached the door and put his ear to it. He found he could hear quite comfortably. Aline, meantime, inside the room, had begun to draw comfort from Joan's very appearance, she looked so capable. Joan's eyes had changed the expression they had contained during the recent interview. They were soft now, with a softness that was half compassionate, half contemptuous. It is the compensation which life gives to those whom it has handled roughly in order that they shall be able to regard with a certain contempt the small troubles of the sheltered. Joan remembered Aline of old, and knew her for a perennial victim of small troubles. Even in their schooldays she had always needed to be looked after and comforted. Her sweet temper had seemed to invite the minor slings and arrows of fortune. Aline was a girl who inspired protectiveness in a certain type of her fellow human beings. It was this quality in her that kept George Emerson awake at nights; and it appealed to Joan now. Joan, for whom life was a constant struggle to keep the wolf within a reasonable distance from the door, and who counted that day happy on which she saw her way clear to paying her weekly rent and possibly having a trifle over for some coveted hat or pair of shoes, could not help feeling, as she looked at Aline, that her own troubles were as nothing, and that the immediate need of the moment was to pet and comfort her friend. Her knowledge of Aline told her the probable tragedy was that she had lost a brooch or had been spoken to crossly by somebody; but it also told her that such tragedies bulked very large on Aline's horizon. Trouble, after all, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder; and Aline was far less able to endure with fortitude the loss of a brooch than she herself to bear the loss of a position the emoluments of which meant the difference between having just enough to eat and starving. "You're worried about something," she said. "Sit down and tell me all about it." Aline sat down and looked about her at the shabby room. By that curious process of the human mind which makes the spectacle of another's misfortune a palliative for one's own, she was feeling oddly comforted already. Her thoughts were not definite and she could not analyze them; but what they amounted to was that, though it was an unpleasant thing to be bullied by a dyspeptic father, the world manifestly held worse tribulations, which her father's other outstanding quality, besides dyspepsia--wealth, to wit--enabled her to avoid. It was at this point that the dim beginnings of philosophy began to invade her mind. The thing resolved itself almost into an equation. If father had not had indigestion he would not have bullied her. But, if father had not made a fortune he would not have had indigestion. Therefore, if father had not made a fortune he would not have bullied her. Practically, in fact, if father did not bully her he would not be rich. And if he were not rich-- She took in the faded carpet, the stained wall paper and the soiled curtains with a comprehensive glance. It certainly cut both ways. She began to be a little ashamed of her misery. "It's nothing at all; really," she said. "I think I've been making rather a fuss about very little." Joan was relieved. The struggling life breeds moods of depression, and such a mood had come to her just before Aline's arrival. Life, at that moment, had seemed to stretch before her like a dusty, weary road, without hope. She was sick of fighting. She wanted money and ease, and a surcease from this perpetual race with the weekly bills. The mood had been the outcome partly of R. Jones' gentlemanly-veiled insinuations, but still more, though she did not realize it, of her yesterday's meeting with Aline. Mr. Peters might be unguarded in his speech when conversing with his daughter--he might play the tyrant toward her in many ways; but he did not stint her in the matter of dress allowance, and, on the occasion when she met Joan, Aline had been wearing so Parisian a hat and a tailor-made suit of such obviously expensive simplicity that green-eyed envy had almost spoiled Joan's pleasure at meeting this friend of her opulent days. She had suppressed the envy, and it had revenged itself by assaulting her afresh in the form of the worst fit of the blues she had had in two years. She had been loyally ready to sink her depression in order to alleviate Aline's, but it was a distinct relief to find that the feat would not be necessary. "Never mind," she said. "Tell me what the very little thing was." "It was only father," said Aline simply. Joan cast her mind back to the days of school and placed father as a rather irritable person, vaguely reputed to be something of an ogre in his home circle. "Was he angry with you about something?" she asked. "Not exactly angry with me; but--well, I was there." Joan's depression lifted slightly. She had forgotten, in the stunning anguish of the sudden spectacle of that hat and that tailor-made suit, that Paris hats and hundred-and-twenty-dollar suits not infrequently had what the vulgar term a string attached to them. After all, she was independent. She might have to murder her beauty with hats and frocks that had never been nearer Paris than the Tottenham Court Road; but at least no one bullied her because she happened to be at hand when tempers were short. "What a shame!" she said. "Tell me all about it." With a prefatory remark that it was all so ridiculous, really, Aline embarked on the narrative of the afternoon's events. Joan heard her out, checking a strong disposition to giggle. Her viewpoint was that of the average person, and the average person cannot see the importance of the scarab in the scheme of things. The opinion she formed of Mr. Peters was of his being an eccentric old gentleman, making a great to-do about nothing at all. Losses had to have a concrete value before they could impress Joan. It was beyond her to grasp that Mr. Peters would sooner have lost a diamond necklace, if he had happened to possess one, than his Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty. It was not until Aline, having concluded her tale, added one more strand to it that she found herself treating the matter seriously. "Father says he would give five thousand dollars to anyone who would get it back for him." "What!" The whole story took on a different complexion for Joan. Money talks. Mr. Peters' words might have been merely the rhetorical outburst of a heated moment; but, even discounting them, there seemed to remain a certain exciting substratum. A man who shouts that he will give five thousand dollars for a thing may very well mean he will give five hundred, and Joan's finances were perpetually in a condition which makes five hundred dollars a sum to be gasped at. "He wasn't serious, surely!" "I think he was," said Aline. "But five thousand dollars!" "It isn't really very much to father, you know. He gave away a hundred thousand a year ago to a university." "But for a grubby little scarab!" "You don't understand how father loves his scarabs. Since he retired from business, he has been simply wrapped up in them. You know collectors are like that. You read in the papers about men giving all sorts of money for funny things." Outside the door R. Jones, his ear close to the panel, drank in all these things greedily. He would have been willing to remain in that attitude indefinitely in return for this kind of special information; but just as Aline said these words a door opened on the floor above, and somebody came out, whistling, and began to descend the stairs. R. Jones stood not on the order of his going. He was down in the hall and fumbling with the handle of the front door with an agility of which few casual observers of his dimensions would have deemed him capable. The next moment he was out in the street, walking calmly toward Leicester Square, pondering over what he had heard. Much of R. Jones' substantial annual income was derived from pondering over what he had heard. In the room Joan was looking at Aline with the distended eyes of one who sees visions or has inspirations. She got up. There are occasions when one must speak standing. "Then you mean to say that your father would really give five thousand dollars to anyone who got this thing back for him?" "I am sure he would. But who could do it?" "I could," said Joan. "And what is more, I'm going to!" Aline stared at her helplessly. In their schooldays, Joan had always swept her off her feet. Then, she had always had the feeling that with Joan nothing was impossible. Heroine worship, like hero worship, dies hard. She looked at Joan now with the stricken sensation of one who has inadvertently set powerful machinery in motion. "But, Joan!" It was all she could say. "My dear child, it's perfectly simple. This earl of yours has taken the thing off to his castle, like a brigand. You say you are going down there on Friday for a visit. All you have to do is to take me along with you, and sit back and watch me get busy." "But, Joan!" "Where's the difficulty?" "I don't see how I could take you down very well." "Why not?" "Oh, I don't know." "But what is your objection?" "Well--don't you see?--if you went down there as a friend of mine and were caught stealing the scarab, there would be just the trouble father wants to avoid--about my engagement, you see, and so on." It was an aspect of the matter that had escaped Joan. She frowned thoughtfully. "I see. Yes, there is that; but there must be a way." "You mustn't, Joan--really! don't think any more about it." "Not think any more about it! My child, do you even faintly realize what five thousand dollars--or a quarter of five thousand dollars--means to me? I would do anything for it--anything! And there's the fun of it. I don't suppose you can realize that, either. I want a change. I've been grubbing away here on nothing a week for years, and it's time I had a vacation. There must be a way by which you could get me down--Why, of course! Why didn't I think of it before! You shall take me on Friday as your lady's maid!" "But, Joan, I couldn't!" "Why not?" "I--I couldn't." "Why not?" "Oh, well!" Joan advanced on her where she sat and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. Her face was inflexible. "Aline, my pet, it's no good arguing. You might just as well argue with a wolf on the trail of a fat Russian peasant. I need that money. I need it in my business. I need it worse than anybody has ever needed anything. And I'm going to have it! From now on, until further notice, I am your lady's maid. You can give your present one a holiday." Aline met her eyes waveringly. The spirit of the old schooldays, when nothing was impossible where Joan was concerned, had her in its grip. Moreover, the excitement of the scheme began to attract her. "But, Joan," she said, "you know it's simply ridiculous. You could never pass as a lady's maid. The other servants would find you out. I expect there are all sorts of things a lady's maid has got to do and not do." "My dear Aline, I know them all. You can't stump me on below-stairs etiquette. I've been a lady's maid!" "Joan!" "It's quite true--three years ago, when I was more than usually impecunious. The wolf was glued to the door like a postage stamp; so I answered an advertisement and became a lady's maid." "You seem to have done everything." "I have--pretty nearly. It's all right for you idle rich, Aline--you can sit still and contemplate life; but we poor working girls have got to hustle." Aline laughed. "You know, you always could make me do anything you wanted in the old days, Joan. I suppose I have got to look on this as quite settled now?" "Absolutely settled! Oh, Aline, there's one thing you must remember: Don't call me Joan when I'm down at the castle. You must call me Valentine." She paused. The recollection of the Honorable Freddie had come to her. No; Valentine would not do! "No; not Valentine," she went on--"it's too jaunty. I used it once years ago, but it never sounded just right. I want something more respectable, more suited to my position. Can't you suggest something?" Aline pondered. "Simpson?" "Simpson! It's exactly right. You must practice it. Simpson! Say it kindly and yet distantly, as though I were a worm, but a worm for whom you felt a mild liking. Roll it round your tongue." "Simpson." "Splendid! Now once again--a little more haughtily." "Simpson--Simpson--Simpson." Joan regarded her with affectionate approval. "It's wonderful!" she said. "You might have been doing it all your life." "What are you laughing at?" asked Aline. "Nothing," said Joan. "I was just thinking of something. There's a young man who lives on the floor above this, and I was lecturing him yesterday on enterprise. I told him to go and find something exciting to do. I wonder what he would say if he knew how thoroughly I am going to practice what I preach!" CHAPTER IV In the morning following Aline's visit to Joan Valentine, Ashe sat in his room, the Morning Post on the table before him. The heady influence of Joan had not yet ceased to work within him; and he proposed, in pursuance of his promise to her, to go carefully through the columns of advertisements, however pessimistic he might feel concerning the utility of that action. His first glance assured him that the vast fortunes of the philanthropists, whose acquaintance he had already made in print, were not yet exhausted. Brian MacNeill still dangled his gold before the public; so did Angus Bruce; so did Duncan Macfarlane and Wallace Mackintosh and Donald MacNab. They still had the money and they still wanted to give it away. Ashe was reading listlessly down the column when, from the mass of advertisements, one of an unusual sort detached itself. WANTED: Young Man of good appearance, who is poor and reckless, to undertake a delicate and dangerous enterprise. Good pay for the right man. Apply between the hours of ten and twelve at offices of Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole, 3, Denvers Street, Strand. And as he read it, half past ten struck on the little clock on his mantelpiece. It was probably this fact that decided Ashe. If he had been compelled to postpone his visit to the offices of Messrs. Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole until the afternoon, it is possible that barriers of laziness might have reared themselves in the path of adventure; for Ashe, an adventurer at heart, was also uncommonly lazy. As it was, however, he could make an immediate start. Pausing but to put on his shoes, and having satisfied himself by a glance in the mirror that his appearance was reasonably good, he seized his hat, shot out of the narrow mouth of Arundell Street like a shell, and scrambled into a taxicab, with the feeling that--short of murder--they could not make it too delicate and dangerous for him. He was conscious of strange thrills. This, he told himself, was the only possible mode of life with spring in the air. He had always been partial to those historical novels in which the characters are perpetually vaulting on chargers and riding across country on perilous errands. This leaping into taxicabs to answer stimulating advertisements in the Morning Post was very much the same sort of thing. It was with fine fervor animating him that he entered the gloomy offices of Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole. His brain was afire and he felt ready for anything. "I have come in ans--" he began, to the diminutive office boy, who seemed to be the nearest thing visible to a Mainprice or a Boole. "Siddown. Gottatakeyerturn," said the office boy; and for the first time Ashe perceived that the ante-room in which he stood was crowded to overflowing. This, in the circumstances, was something of a damper. He had pictured himself, during his ride in the cab, striding into the office and saying. "The delicate and dangerous enterprise. Lead me to it!" He had not realized until now that he was not the only man in London who read the advertisement columns of the Morning Post, and for an instant his heart sank at the sight of all this competition. A second and more comprehensive glance at his rivals gave him confidence. The Wanted column of the morning paper is a sort of dredger, which churns up strange creatures from the mud of London's underworld. Only in response to the dredger's operations do they come to the surface in such numbers as to be noticeable, for as a rule they are of a solitary habit and shun company; but when they do come they bring with them something of the horror of the depths. It is the saddest spectacle in the world--that of the crowd collected by a Wanted advertisement. They are so palpably not wanted by anyone for any purpose whatsoever; yet every time they gather together with a sort of hopeful hopelessness. What they were originally--the units of these collections--Heaven knows. Fate has battered out of them every trace of individuality. Each now is exactly like his neighbor--no worse; no better. Ashe, as he sat and watched them, was filled with conflicting emotions. One-half of him, thrilled with the glamour of adventure, was chafing at the delay, and resentful of these poor creatures as of so many obstacles to the beginning of all the brisk and exciting things that lay behind the mysterious brevity of the advertisement; the other, pitifully alive to the tragedy of the occasion, was grateful for the delay. On the whole, he was glad to feel that if one of these derelicts did not secure the "good pay for the right man," it would not be his fault. He had been the last to arrive, and he would be the last to pass through that door, which was the gateway of adventure--the door with Mr. Boole inscribed on its ground glass, behind which sat the author of the mysterious request for assistance, interviewing applicants. It would be through their own shortcomings--not because of his superior attractions--if they failed to please that unseen arbiter. That they were so failing was plain. Scarcely had one scarred victim of London's unkindness passed through before the bell would ring; the office boy, who, in the intervals of frowning sternly on the throng, as much as to say that he would stand no nonsense, would cry, "Next!" and another dull-eyed wreck would drift through, to be followed a moment later by yet another. The one fact at present ascertainable concerning the unknown searcher for reckless young men of good appearance was that he appeared to be possessed of considerable decision of character, a man who did not take long to make up his mind. He was rejecting applicants now at the rate of two a minute. Expeditious though he was, he kept Ashe waiting for a considerable time. It was not until the hands of the fat clock over the door pointed to twenty minutes past eleven that the office boy's "Next!" found him the only survivor. He gave his clothes a hasty smack with the palm of his hand and his hair a fleeting dab to accentuate his good appearance, and turned the handle of the door of fate. The room assigned by the firm to their Mr. Boole for his personal use was a small and dingy compartment, redolent of that atmosphere of desolation which lawyers alone know how to achieve. It gave the impression of not having been swept since the foundation of the firm, in the year 1786. There was one small window, covered with grime. It was one of those windows you see only in lawyers' offices. Possibly some reckless Mainprice or harebrained Boole had opened it in a fit of mad excitement induced by the news of the Battle of Waterloo, in 1815, and had been instantly expelled from the firm. Since then, no one had dared to tamper with it. Gazing through this window--or, rather, gazing at it, for X-rays could hardly have succeeded in actually penetrating the alluvial deposits on the glass--was a little man. As Ashe entered, he turned and looked at him as though he hurt him rather badly in some tender spot. Ashe was obliged to own to himself that he felt a little nervous. It is not every day that a young man of good appearance, who has led a quiet life, meets face to face one who is prepared to pay him well for doing something delicate and dangerous. To Ashe the sensation was entirely novel. The most delicate and dangerous act he had performed to date had been the daily mastication of Mrs. Bell's breakfast--included in the rent. Yes, he had to admit it--he was nervous: and the fact that he was nervous made him hot and uncomfortable. To judge him by his appearance, the man at the window was also hot and uncomfortable. He was a little, truculent-looking man, and his face at present was red with a flush that sat unnaturally on a normally lead-colored face. His eyes looked out from under thick gray eyebrows with an almost tortured expression. This was partly owing to the strain of interviewing Ashe's preposterous predecessors, but principally to the fact that the little man had suddenly been seized with acute indigestion, a malady to which he was peculiarly subject. He removed from his mouth the black cigar he was smoking, inserted a digestive tabloid, and replaced the cigar. Then he concentrated his attention on Ashe. As he did so the hostile expression of his face became modified. He looked surprised and--grudgingly--pleased. "Well, what do you want?" he said. "I came in answer to--" "In answer to my advertisement? I had given up hope of seeing anything part human. I thought you must be one of the clerks. You're certainly more like what I advertised for. Of all the seedy bunches of dead beats I ever struck, the aggregation I've just been interviewing was the seediest! When I spend good money in advertising for a young man of good appearance, I want a young man of good appearance--not a tramp of fifty-five." Ashe was sorry for his predecessors, but he was bound to admit that they certainly had corresponded somewhat faithfully to the description just given. The comparative cordiality of his own reception removed the slight nervousness that had been troubling him. He began to feel confident--almost jaunty. "I'm through," said the little man wearily. "I've had enough of interviewing applicants. You're the last one I'll see. Are there any more hobos outside?" "Not when I came in." "Then we'll get down to business. I'll tell you what I want done, and if you are willing you can do it; if you are not willing you can leave it--and go to the devil! Sit down." Ashe sat down. He resented the little man's tone, but this was not the moment for saying so. His companion scrutinized him narrowly. "So far as appearance goes," he said, "you are what I want." Ashe felt inclined to bow. "Whoever takes on this job has got to act as my valet, and you look like a valet." Ashe felt less inclined to bow. "You're tall and thin and ordinary-looking. Yes; so far as appearance goes, you fill the bill." It seemed to Ashe that it was time to correct an impression the little man appeared to have formed. "I am afraid," he said, "if all you want is a valet, you will have to look elsewhere. I got the idea from your advertisement that something rather more exciting was in the air. I can recommend you to several good employment agencies if you wish." He rose. "Good-morning!" he said. He would have liked to fling the massive pewter inkwell at this little creature who had so keenly disappointed him. "Sit down!" snapped the other. Ashe resumed his seat. The hope of adventure dies hard on a Spring morning when one is twenty-six, and he had the feeling that there was more to come. "Don't be a damned fool!" said the little man. "Of course I'm not asking you to be a valet and nothing else." "You would want me to do some cooking and plain sewing on the side, perhaps?" Their eyes met in a hostile glare. The flush on the little man's face deepened. "Are you trying to get fresh with me?" he demanded dangerously. "Yes," said Ashe. The answer seemed to disconcert his adversary. He was silent for a moment. "Well," he said at last, "maybe it's all for the best. If you weren't full of gall probably you wouldn't have come here at all; and whoever takes on this job of mine has got to have gall if he has nothing else. I think we shall suit each other." "What is the job?" The little man's face showed doubt and perplexity. "It's awkward. If I'm to make the thing clear to you I've got to trust you. And I don't know a thing about you. I wish I had thought of that before I inserted the advertisement." Ashe appreciated the difficulty. "Couldn't you make an A--B case out of it?" "Maybe I could if I knew what an A--B case was." "Call the people mixed up in it A and B." "And forget, halfway through, who was which! No; I guess I'll have to trust you." "I'll play square." The little man fastened his eyes on Ashe's in a piercing stare. Ashe met them smilingly. His spirits, always fairly cheerful, had risen high by now. There was something about the little man, in spite of his brusqueness and ill temper, which made him feel flippant. "Pure white!" said Ashe. "Eh?" "My soul! And this"--he thumped the left section of his waistcoat--"solid gold. You may fire when ready, Gridley. Proceed, professor." "I don't know where to begin." "Without presuming to dictate, why not at the beginning?" "It's all so darned complicated that I don't rightly know which is the beginning. Well, see here . . . I collect scarabs. I'm crazy about scarabs. Ever since I quit business, you might say that I have practically lived for scarabs." "Though it sounds like an unkind thing to say of anyone," said Ashe. "Incidentally, what are scarabs?" He held up his hand. "Wait! It all comes back to me. Expensive classical education, now bearing belated fruit. Scarabaeus--Latin; noun, nominative--a beetle. Scarabaee--vocative--O you beetle! Scarabaeum-- accusative--the beetle. Scarabaei--of the beetle. Scarabaeo--to or for the beetle. I remember now. Egypt--Rameses--pyramids-- sacred scarabs! Right!" "Well, I guess I've gotten together the best collection of scarabs outside the British Museum, and some of them are worth what you like to me. I don't reckon money when it comes to a question of my scarabs. Do you understand?" "Sure, Mike!" Displeasure clouded the little man's face. "My name is not Mike." "I used the word figuratively, as it were." "Well, don't do it again. My name is J. Preston Peters, and Mr. Peters will do as well as anything else when you want to attract my attention." "Mine is Marson. You were saying, Mr. Peters--?" "Well, it's this way," said the little man. Shakespeare and Pope have both emphasized the tediousness of a twice-told tale; the Episode Of the Stolen Scarab need not be repeated at this point, though it must be admitted that Mr. Peters' version of it differed considerably from the calm, dispassionate description the author, in his capacity of official historian, has given earlier in the story. In Mr. Peters' version the Earl of Emsworth appeared as a smooth and purposeful robber, a sort of elderly Raffles, worming his way into the homes of the innocent, and only sparing that portion of their property which was too heavy for him to carry away. Mr. Peters, indeed, specifically described the Earl of Emsworth as an oily old second-story man. It took Ashe some little time to get a thorough grasp of the tangled situation; but he did it at last. Only one point perplexed him. "You want to hire somebody to go to this castle and get this scarab back for you. I follow that. But why must he go as your valet?" "That's simple enough. You don't think I'm asking him to buy a black mask and break in, do you? I'm making it as easy for him as possible. I can't take a secretary down to the castle, for everybody knows that, now I've retired, I haven't got a secretary; and if I engaged a new one and he was caught trying to steal my scarab from the earl's collection, it would look suspicious. But a valet is different. Anyone can get fooled by a crook valet with bogus references." "I see. There's just one other point: Suppose your accomplice does get caught--what then?" "That," said Mr. Peters, "is the catch; and it's just because of that I am offering good pay to my man. We'll suppose, for the sake of argument, that you accept the contract and get caught. Well, if that happens you've got to look after yourself. I couldn't say a word. If I did it would all come out, and so far as the breaking off of my daughter's engagement to young Threepwood is concerned, it would be just as bad as though I had tried to get the thing back myself. "You've got to bear that in mind. You've got to remember it if you forget everything else. I don't appear in this business in any way whatsoever. If you get caught you take what's coming to you without a word. You can't turn round and say: 'I am innocent. Mr. Peters will explain all'--because Mr. Peters certainly won't. Mr. Peters won't utter a syllable of protest if they want to hang you. "No; if you go into this, young man, you go into it with your eyes open. You go into it with a full understanding of the risks--because you think the reward, if you are successful, makes the taking of those risks worth while. You and I know that what you are doing isn't really stealing; it's simply a tactful way of getting back my own property. But the judge and jury will have different views." "I am beginning to understand," said Ashe thoughtfully, "why you called the job delicate and dangerous." Certainly it had been no overstatement. As a writer of detective stories for the British office boy, he had imagined in his time many undertakings that might be so described, but few to which the description was more admirably suited. "It is," said Mr. Peters; "and that is why I'm offering good pay. Whoever carries this job through gets one thousand pounds." Ashe started. "One thousand pounds--five thousand dollars!" "Five thousand." "When do I begin?" "You'll do it?" "For five thousand dollars I certainly will." "With your eyes open?" "Wide open!" A look of positive geniality illuminated Mr. Peters' pinched features. He even went so far as to pat Ashe on the shoulder. "Good boy!" he said. "Meet me at Paddington Station at four o'clock on Friday. And if there's anything more you want to know come round to this address." There remained the telling of Joan Valentine; for it was obviously impossible not to tell her. When you have revolutionized your life at the bidding of another you cannot well conceal the fact, as though nothing had happened. Ashe had not the slightest desire to conceal the fact. On the contrary, he was glad to have such a capital excuse for renewing the acquaintance. He could not tell her, of course, the secret details of the thing. Naturally those must remain hidden. No, he would just go airily in and say: "You know what you told me about doing something new? Well, I've just got a job as a valet." So he went airily in and said it. "To whom?" said Joan. "To a man named Peters--an American." Women are trained from infancy up to conceal their feelings. Joan did not start or otherwise express emotion. "Not Mr. J. Preston Peters?" "Yes. Do you know him? What a remarkable thing." "His daughter," said Joan, "has just engaged me as a lady's maid." "What!" "It will not be quite the same thing as three years ago," Joan explained. "It is just a cheap way of getting a holiday. I used to know Miss Peters very well, you see. It will be more like traveling as her guest." "But--but--" Ashe had not yet overcome his amazement. "Yes?" "But what an extraordinary coincidence!" "Yes. By the way, how did you get the situation? And what put it into your head to be a valet at all? It seems such a curious thing for you to think of doing." Ashe was embarrassed. "I--I--well, you see, the experience will be useful to me, of course, in my writing." "Oh! Are you thinking of taking up my line of work? Dukes?" "No, no--not exactly that." "It seems so odd. How did you happen to get in touch with Mr. Peters?" "Oh, I answered an advertisement." "I see." Ashe was becoming conscious of an undercurrent of something not altogether agreeable in the conversation. It lacked the gay ease of their first interview. He was not apprehensive lest she might have guessed his secret. There was, he felt, no possible means by which she could have done that. Yet the fact remained that those keen blue eyes of hers were looking at him in a peculiar and penetrating manner. He felt damped. "It will be nice, being together," he said feebly. "Very!" said Joan. There was a pause. "I thought I would come and tell you." "Quite so." There was another pause. "It seems so funny that you should be going out as a lady's maid." "Yes?" "But, of course, you have done it before." "Yes." "The really extraordinary thing is that we should be going to the same people." "Yes." "It--it's remarkable, isn't it?" "Yes." Ashe reflected. No; he did not appear to have any further remarks to make. "Good-by for the present," he said. "Good-by." Ashe drifted out. He was conscious of a wish that he understood girls. Girls, in his opinion, were odd. When he had gone Joan Valentine hurried to the door and, having opened it an inch, stood listening. When the sound of his door closing came to her she ran down the stairs and out into Arundell Street. She went to the Hotel Mathis. "I wonder," she said to the sad-eyed waiter, "if you have a copy of the Morning Post?" The waiter, a child of romantic Italy, was only too anxious to oblige youth and beauty. He disappeared and presently returned with a crumpled copy. Joan thanked him with a bright smile. Back in her room, she turned to the advertisement pages. She knew that life was full of what the unthinking call coincidences; but the miracle of Ashe having selected by chance the father of Aline Peters as an employer was too much of a coincidence for her. Suspicion furrowed her brow. It did not take her long to discover the advertisement that had sent Ashe hurrying in a taxicab to the offices of Messrs. Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole. She had been looking for something of the kind. She read it through twice and smiled. Everything was very clear to her. She looked at the ceiling above her and shook her head. "You are quite a nice young man, Mr. Marson," she said softly; "but you mustn't try to jump my claim. I dare say you need that money too; but I'm afraid you must go without. I am going to have it--and nobody else!" CHAPTER V The four-fifteen express slid softly out of Paddington Station and Ashe Marson settled himself in the corner seat of his second-class compartment. Opposite him Joan Valentine had begun to read a magazine. Along the corridor, in a first-class smoking compartment, Mr. Peters was lighting a big black cigar. Still farther along the corridor, in a first-class non-smoking compartment, Aline Peters looked through the window and thought of many things. In English trains the tipping classes travel first; valets, lady's maids, footmen, nurses, and head stillroom maids, second; and housemaids, grooms, and minor and inferior stillroom maids, third. But for these social distinctions, the whole fabric of society would collapse and anarchy stalk naked through the land--as in the United States. Ashe was feeling remarkably light-hearted. He wished he had not bought Joan that magazine and thus deprived himself temporarily of the pleasure of her conversation; but that was the only flaw in his happiness. With the starting of the train, which might be considered the formal and official beginning of the delicate and dangerous enterprise on which he had embarked, he had definitely come to the conclusion that the life adventurous was the life for him. He had frequently suspected this to be the case, but it had required the actual experiment to bring certainty. Almost more than physical courage, the ideal adventurer needs a certain lively inquisitiveness, the quality of not being content to mind his own affairs; and in Ashe this quality was highly developed. From boyhood up he had always been interested in things that were none of his business. And it is just that attribute which the modern young man, as a rule, so sadly lacks. The modern young man may do adventurous things if they are thrust on him; but left to himself he will edge away uncomfortably and look in the other direction when the goddess of adventure smiles at him. Training and tradition alike pluck at his sleeve and urge him not to risk making himself ridiculous. And from sheer horror of laying himself open to the charge of not minding his own business he falls into a stolid disregard of all that is out of the ordinary and exciting. He tells himself that the shriek from the lonely house he passed just now was only the high note of some amateur songstress, and that the maiden in distress whom he saw pursued by the ruffian with a knife was merely earning the salary paid her by some motion-picture firm. And he proceeds on his way, looking neither to left nor right. Ashe had none of this degenerate coyness toward adventure. Though born within easy distance of Boston and deposited by circumstances in London, he possessed, nevertheless, to a remarkable degree, that quality so essentially the property of the New Yorker--the quality known, for want of a more polished word, as rubber. It is true that it had needed the eloquence of Joan Valentine to stir him from his groove; but that was because he was also lazy. He loved new sights and new experiences. Yes; he was happy. The rattle of the train shaped itself into a lively march. He told himself that he had found the right occupation for a young man in the Spring. Joan, meantime, intrenched behind her magazine, was also busy with her thoughts. She was not reading the magazine; she held it before her as a protection, knowing that if she laid it down Ashe would begin to talk. And just at present she had no desire for conversation. She, like Ashe, was contemplating the immediate future, but, unlike him, was not doing so with much pleasure. She was regretting heartily that she had not resisted the temptation to uplift this young man and wishing that she had left him to wallow in the slothful peace in which she had found him. It is curious how frequently in this world our attempts to stimulate and uplift swoop back on us and smite us like boomerangs. Ashe's presence was the direct outcome of her lecture on enterprise, and it added a complication to an already complicated venture. She did her best to be fair to Ashe. It was not his fault that he was about to try to deprive her of five thousand dollars, which she looked on as her personal property; but illogically she found herself feeling a little hostile. She glanced furtively at him over the magazine, choosing by ill chance a moment when he had just directed his gaze at her. Their eyes met and there was nothing for it but to talk; so she tucked away her hostility in a corner of her mind, where she could find it again when she wanted it, and prepared for the time being to be friendly. After all, except for the fact that he was her rival, this was a pleasant and amusing young man, and one for whom, until he made the announcement that had changed her whole attitude toward him, she had entertained a distinct feeling of friendship--nothing warmer. There was something about him that made her feel that she would have liked to stroke his hair in a motherly way and straighten his tie, and have cozy chats with him in darkened rooms by the light of open fires, and make him tell her his inmost thoughts, and stimulate him to do something really worth while with his life; but this, she held, was merely the instinct of a generous nature to be kind and helpful even to a comparative stranger. "Well, Mr. Marson," she said, "Here we are!" "Exactly what I was thinking," said Ashe. He was conscious of a marked increase in the exhilaration the starting of the expedition had brought to him. At the back of his mind he realized there had been all along a kind of wistful resentment at the change in this girl's manner toward him. During the brief conversation when he had told her of his having secured his present situation, and later, only a few minutes back, on the platform of Paddington Station, he had sensed a coldness, a certain hostility--so different from her pleasant friendliness at their first meeting. She had returned now to her earlier manner and he was surprised at the difference it made. He felt somehow younger, more alive. The lilt of the train's rattle changed to a gay ragtime. This was curious, because Joan was nothing more than a friend. He was not in love with her. One does not fall in love with a girl whom one has met only three times. One is attracted--yes; but one does not fall in love. A moment's reflection enabled him to diagnose his sensations correctly. This odd impulse to leap across the compartment and kiss Joan was not love. It was merely the natural desire of a good-hearted young man to be decently chummy with his species. "Well, what do you think of it all, Mr. Marson?" said Joan. "Are you sorry or glad that you let me persuade you to do this perfectly mad thing? I feel responsible for you, you know. If it had not been for me you would have been comfortably in Arundell Street, writing your Wand of Death." "I'm glad." "You don't feel any misgivings now that you are actually committed to domestic service?" "Not one." Joan, against her will, smiled approval on this uncompromising attitude. This young man might be her rival, but his demeanor on the eve of perilous times appealed to her. That was the spirit she liked and admired--that reckless acceptance of whatever might come. It was the spirit in which she herself had gone into the affair and she was pleased to find that it animated Ashe also--though, to be sure, it had its drawbacks. It made his rivalry the more dangerous. This reflection injected a touch of the old hostility into her manner. "I wonder whether you will continue to feel so brave." "What do you mean?" Joan perceived that she was in danger of going too far. She had no wish to unmask Ashe at the expense of revealing her own secret. She must resist the temptation to hint that she had discovered his. "I meant," she said quickly, "that from what I have seen of him Mr. Peters seems likely to be a rather trying man to work for." Ashe's face cleared. For a moment he had almost suspected that she had guessed his errand. "Yes. I imagine he will be. He is what you might call quick-tempered. He has dyspepsia, you know." "I know." "What he wants is plenty of fresh air and no cigars, and a regular course of those Larsen Exercises that amused you so much." Joan laughed. "Are you going to try and persuade Mr. Peters to twist himself about like that? Do let me see it if you do." "I wish I could." "Do suggest it to him." "Don't you think he would resent it from a valet?" "I keep forgetting that you are a valet. You look so unlike one." "Old Peters didn't think so. He rather complimented me on my appearance. He said I was ordinary-looking." "I shouldn't have called you that. You look so very strong and fit." "Surely there are muscular valets?" "Well, yes; I suppose there are." Ashe looked at her. He was thinking that never in his life had he seen a girl so amazingly pretty. What it was that she had done to herself was beyond him; but something, some trick of dress, had given her a touch of the demure that made her irresistible. She was dressed in sober black, the ideal background for her fairness. "While on the subject," he said, "I suppose you know you don't look in the least like a lady's maid? You look like a disguised princess." She laughed. "That's very nice of you, Mr. Marson, but you're quite wrong. Anyone could tell I was a lady's maid, a mile away. You aren't criticizing the dress, surely?" "The dress is all right. It's the general effect. I don't think your expression is right. It's--it's--there's too much attack in it. You aren't meek enough." Joan's eyes opened wide. "Meek! Have you ever seen an English lady's maid, Mr. Marson?" "Why, no; now that I come to think of it, I don't believe I have." "Well, let me tell you that meekness is her last quality. Why should she be meek? Doesn't she go in after the groom of the chambers?" "Go in? Go in where?" "In to dinner." She smiled at the sight of his bewildered face. "I'm afraid you don't know much about the etiquette of the new world you have entered so rashly. Didn't you know that the rules of precedence among the servants of a big house in England are more rigid and complicated than in English society?" "You're joking!" "I'm not joking. You try going in to dinner out of your proper place when we get to Blandings and see what happens. A public rebuke from the butler is the least you could expect." A bead of perspiration appeared on Ashe's forehead. "Heavens!" he whispered. "If a butler publicly rebuked me I think I should commit suicide. I couldn't survive it." He stared, with fallen jaw, into the abyss of horror into which he had leaped so light-heartedly. The servant problem, on this large scale, had been nonexistent for him until now. In the days of his youth, at Mayling, Massachusetts, his needs had been ministered to by a muscular Swede. Later, at Oxford, there had been his "scout" and his bed maker, harmless persons both, provided you locked up your whisky. And in London, his last phase, a succession of servitors of the type of the disheveled maid at Number Seven had tended him. That, dotted about the land of his adoption, there were houses in which larger staffs of domestics were maintained, he had been vaguely aware. Indeed, in "Gridley Quayle, Investigator; the Adventure of the Missing Marquis"--number four of the series--he had drawn a picture of the home life of a duke, in which a butler and two powdered footmen had played their parts; but he had had no idea that rigid and complicated rules of etiquette swayed the private lives of these individuals. If he had given the matter a thought he had supposed that when the dinner hour arrived the butler and the two footmen would troop into the kitchen and squash in at the table wherever they found room. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me all you know. I feel as though I had escaped a frightful disaster." "You probably have. I don't suppose there is anything so terrible as a snub from a butler." "If there is I can't think of it. When I was at Oxford I used to go and stay with a friend of mine who had a butler that looked like a Roman emperor in swallowtails. He terrified me. I used to grovel to the man. Please give me all the pointers you can." "Well, as Mr. Peters' valet, I suppose you will be rather a big man." "I shan't feel it." "However large the house party is, Mr. Peters is sure to be the principal guest; so your standing will be correspondingly magnificent. You come after the butler, the housekeeper, the groom of the chambers, Lord Emsworth's valet, Lady Ann Warblington's lady's maid--" "Who is she?" "Lady Ann? Lord Emsworth's sister. She has lived with him since his wife died. What was I saying? Oh, yes! After them come the honorable Frederick Threepwood's valet and myself--and then you." "I'm not so high up then, after all?" "Yes, you are. There's a whole crowd who come after you. It all depends on how many other guests there are besides Mr. Peters." "I suppose I charge in at the head of a drove of housemaids and scullery maids?" "My dear Mr. Marson, if a housemaid or a scullery maid tried to get into the steward's room and have her meals with us, she would be--" "Rebuked by the butler?" "Lynched, I should think. Kitchen maids and scullery maids eat in the kitchen. Chauffeurs, footmen, under-butler, pantry boys, hall boy, odd man and steward's-room footman take their meals in the servants' hall, waited on by the hall boy. The stillroom maids have breakfast and tea in the stillroom, and dinner and supper in the hall. The housemaids and nursery maids have breakfast and tea in the housemaid's sitting-room, and dinner and supper in the hall. The head housemaid ranks next to the head stillroom maid. The laundry maids have a place of their own near the laundry, and the head laundry maid ranks above the head housemaid. The chef has his meals in a room of his own near the kitchen. Is there anything else I can tell you, Mr. Marson?" Ashe was staring at her with vacant eyes. He shook his head dumbly. "We stop at Swindon in half an hour," said Joan softly. "Don't you think you would be wise to get out there and go straight back to London, Mr. Marson? Think of all you would avoid!" Ashe found speech. "It's a nightmare!" "You would be far happier in Arundell Street. Why don't you get out at Swindon and go back?" Ashe shook his head. "I can't. There's--there's a reason." Joan picked up her magazine again. Hostility had come out from the corner into which she had tucked it away and was once more filling her mind. She knew it was illogical, but she could not help it. For a moment, during her revelations of servants' etiquette, she had allowed herself to hope that she had frightened her rival out of the field, and the disappointment made her feel irritable. She buried herself in a short story, and countered Ashe's attempts at renewing the conversation with cold monosyllables, until he ceased his efforts and fell into a moody silence. He was feeling hurt and angry. Her sudden coldness, following on the friendliness with which she had talked so long, puzzled and infuriated him. He felt as though he had been snubbed, and for no reason. He resented the defensive magazine, though he had bought it for her himself. He resented her attitude of having ceased to recognize his existence. A sadness, a filmy melancholy, crept over him. He brooded on the unutterable silliness of humanity, especially the female portion of it, in erecting artificial barriers to friendship. It was so unreasonable. At their first meeting, when she might have been excused for showing defensiveness, she had treated him with unaffected ease. When that meeting had ended there was a tacit understanding between them that all the preliminary awkwardnesses of the first stages of acquaintanceship were to be considered as having been passed; and that when they met again, if they ever did, it would be as friends. And here she was, luring him on with apparent friendliness, and then withdrawing into herself as though he had presumed. A rebellious spirit took possession of him. He didn't care! Let her be cold and distant. He would show her that she had no monopoly of those qualities. He would not speak to her until she spoke to him; and when she spoke to him he would freeze her with his courteous but bleakly aloof indifference. The train rattled on. Joan read her magazine. Silence reigned in the second-class compartment. Swindon was reached and passed. Darkness fell on the land. The journey began to seem interminable to Ashe; but presently there came a creaking of brakes and the train jerked itself to another stop. A voice on the platform made itself heard, calling: "Market Blandings! Market Blandings Station!" * * * The village of Market Blandings is one of those sleepy English hamlets that modern progress has failed to touch; except by the addition of a railroad station and a room over the grocer's shop where moving pictures are on view on Tuesdays and Fridays. The church is Norman and the intelligence of the majority of the natives Paleozoic. To alight at Market Blandings Station in the dusk of a rather chilly Spring day, when the southwest wind has shifted to due east and the thrifty inhabitants have not yet lit their windows, is to be smitten with the feeling that one is at the edge of the world with no friends near. Ashe, as he stood beside Mr. Peters' baggage and raked the unsympathetic darkness with a dreary eye, gave himself up to melancholy. Above him an oil lamp shed a meager light. Along the platform a small but sturdy porter was juggling with a milk can. The east wind explored Ashe's system with chilly fingers. Somewhere out in the darkness into which Mr. Peters and Aline had already vanished in a large automobile, lay the castle, with its butler and its fearful code of etiquette. Soon the cart that was to convey him and the trunks thither would be arriving. He shivered. Out of the gloom and into the feeble rays of the oil lamp came Joan Valentine. She had been away, tucking Aline into the car. She looked warm and cheerful. She was smiling in the old friendly way. If girls realized their responsibilities they would be so careful when they smiled that they would probably abandon the practice altogether. There are moments in a man's life when a girl's smile can have as important results as an explosion of dynamite. In the course of their brief acquaintance Joan had smiled at Ashe many times, but the conditions governing those occasions had not been such as to permit him to be seriously affected. He had been pleased on such occasions; he had admired her smile in a detached and critical spirit; but he had not been overwhelmed by it. The frame of mind necessary for that result had been lacking. Now, however, after five minutes of solitude on the depressing platform of Market Blandings Station, he was what the spiritualists call a sensitive subject. He had reached that depth of gloom and bodily discomfort when a sudden smile has all the effect of strong liquor and good news administered simultaneously, warming the blood and comforting the soul, and generally turning the world from a bleak desert into a land flowing with milk and honey. It is not too much to say that he reeled before Joan's smile. It was so entirely unexpected. He clutched Mr. Peters' steamer trunk in his emotion. All his resolutions to be cold and distant were swept away. He had the feeling that in a friendless universe here was somebody who was fond of him and glad to see him. A smile of such importance demands analysis, and in this case repays it; for many things lay behind this smile of Joan Valentine's on the platform of Market Blandings Station. In the first place, she had had another of her swift changes of mood, and had once again tucked away hostility into its corner. She had thought it over and had come to the conclusion that as she had no logical grievance against Ashe for anything he had done to be distant to him was the behavior of a cat. Consequently she resolved, when they should meet again, to resume her attitude of good-fellowship. That in itself would have been enough to make her smile. There was another reason, however, which had nothing to do with Ashe. While she had been tucking Aline into the automobile she met the eye of the driver of that vehicle and had perceived a curious look in it--a look of amazement and sheer terror. A moment, later, when Aline called the driver Freddie, she had understood. No wonder the Honorable Freddie had looked as though he had seen a ghost. It would be a relief to the poor fellow when, as he undoubtedly would do in the course of the drive, he inquired of Aline the name of her maid and was told that it was Simpson. He would mutter something about "Reminds me of a girl I used to know," and would brood on the remarkable way in which Nature produces doubles. But he had a bad moment, and it was partly at the recollection of his face that Joan smiled. A third reason was because the sight of the Honorable Freddie had reminded her that R. Jones had said he had written her poetry. That thought, too, had contributed toward the smile which so dazzled Ashe. Ashe, not being miraculously intuitive, accepted the easier explanation that she smiled because she was glad to be in his company; and this thought, coming on top of his mood of despair and general dissatisfaction with everything mundane, acted on him like some powerful chemical. In every man's life there is generally one moment to which in later years he can look back and say: "In this moment I fell in love!" Such a moment came to Ashe now. Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, Mercy I asked; mercy I found. So sings the poet and so it was with Ashe. In the almost incredibly brief time it took the small but sturdy porter to roll a milk can across the platform and hump it, with a clang, against other milk cans similarly treated a moment before, Ashe fell in love. The word is so loosely used, to cover a thousand varying shades of emotion--from the volcanic passion of an Antony for a Cleopatra to the tepid preference of a grocer's assistant for the Irish maid at the second house on Main Street, as opposed to the Norwegian maid at the first house past the post office--the mere statement that Ashe fell in love is not a sufficient description of his feelings as he stood grasping Mr. Peters' steamer trunk. Analysis is required. From his fourteenth year onward Ashe had been in love many times. His sensations in the case of Joan were neither the terrific upheaval that had caused him, in his fifteenth year, to collect twenty-eight photographs of the heroine of the road company of a musical comedy which had visited the Hayling Opera House, nor the milder flame that had caused him, when at college, to give up smoking for a week and try to read the complete works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. His love was something that lay between these two poles. He did not wish the station platform of Market Blandings to become suddenly congested with red Indians so that he might save Joan's life; and he did not wish to give up anything at all. But he was conscious--to the very depths of his being--that a future in which Joan did not figure would be so insupportable as not to bear considering; and in the immediate present he very strongly favored the idea of clasping Joan in his arms and kissing her until further notice. Mingled with these feelings was an excited gratitude to her for coming to him like this, with that electric smile on her face; a stunned realization that she was a thousand times prettier than he had ever imagined; and a humility that threatened to make him loose his clutch on the steamer trunk and roll about at her feet, yapping like a dog. Gratitude, so far as he could dissect his tangled emotion was the predominating ingredient of his mood. Only once in his life had he felt so passionately grateful to any human being. On that occasion, too, the object of his gratitude had been feminine. Years before, when a boy in his father's home in distant Hayling, Massachusetts, those in authority had commanded that he--in his eleventh year and as shy as one can be only at that interesting age--should rise in the presence of a roomful of strangers, adult guests, and recite "The Wreck of the Hesperus." He had risen. He had blushed. He had stammered. He had contrived to whisper: "It was the Schooner Hesperus." And then, in a corner of the room, a little girl, for no properly explained reason, had burst out crying. She had yelled, she had bellowed, and would not be comforted; and in the ensuing confusion Ashe had escaped to the woodpile at the bottom of the garden, saved by a miracle. All his life he had remembered the gratitude he had felt for that little timely girl, and never until now had he experienced any other similar spasm. But as he looked at Joan he found himself renewing that emotion of fifteen years ago. She was about to speak. In a sort of trance he watched her lips part. He waited almost reverently for the first words she should speak to him in her new role of the only authentic goddess. "Isn't it a shame?" she said. "I've just put a penny in the chocolate slot machine--and it's empty! I've a good mind to write to the company." Ashe felt as though he were listening to the strains of some grand sweet anthem. The small but sturdy porter, weary of his work among the milk cans, or perhaps--let us not do him an injustice even in thought--having finished it, approached them. "The cart from the castle's here." In the gloom beyond him there gleamed a light which had not been there before. The meditative snort of a horse supported his statement. He began to deal as authoritatively with Mr. Peters' steamer trunk as he had dealt with the milk cans. "At last!" said Joan. "I hope it's a covered cart. I'm frozen. Let's go and see." Ashe followed her with the gait of an automaton. * * * Cold is the ogre that drives all beautiful things into hiding. Below the surface of a frost-bound garden there lurk hidden bulbs, which are only biding their time to burst forth in a riot of laughing color; but shivering Nature dare not put forth her flowers until the ogre has gone. Not otherwise does cold suppress love. A man in an open cart on an English Spring night may continue to be in love; but love is not the emotion uppermost in his bosom. It shrinks within him and waits for better times. The cart was not a covered cart. It was open to the four winds of heaven, of which the one at present active proceeded from the bleak east. To this fact may be attributed Ashe's swift recovery from the exalted mood into which Joan's smile had thrown him, his almost instant emergence from the trance. Deep down in him he was aware that his attitude toward Joan had not changed, but his conscious self was too fully occupied with the almost hopeless task of keeping his blood circulating, to permit of thoughts of love. Before the cart had traveled twenty yards he was a mere chunk of frozen misery. After an eternity of winding roads, darkened cottages, and black fields and hedges, the cart turned in at a massive iron gate, which stood open giving entrance to a smooth gravel drive. Here the way ran for nearly a mile through an open park of great trees and was then swallowed in the darkness of dense shrubberies. Presently to the left appeared lights, at first in ones and twos, shining out and vanishing again; then, as the shrubberies ended and the smooth lawns and terraces began, blazing down on the travelers from a score of windows, with the heartening effect of fires on a winter night. Against the pale gray sky Blandings Castle stood out like a mountain. It was a noble pile, of Early Tudor building. Its history is recorded in England's history books and Viollet-le-Duc has written of its architecture. It dominated the surrounding country. The feature of it which impressed Ashe most at this moment, however, was the fact that it looked warm; and for the first time since the drive began he found himself in a mood that approximated cheerfulness. It was a little early to begin feeling cheerful, he discovered, for the journey was by no means over. Arrived within sight of the castle, the cart began a detour, which, ten minutes later, brought it under an arch and over cobblestones to the rear of the building, where it eventually pulled up in front of a great door. Ashe descended painfully and beat his feet against the cobbles. He helped Joan to climb down. Joan was apparently in a gentle glow. Women seem impervious to cold. The door opened. Warm, kitcheny scents came through it. Strong men hurried out to take down the trunks, while fair women, in the shape of two nervous scullery maids, approached Joan and Ashe, and bobbed curtsies. This under more normal conditions would have been enough to unman Ashe; but in his frozen state a mere curtsying scullery maid expended herself harmlessly on him. He even acknowledged the greeting with a kindly nod. The scullery maids, it seemed, were acting in much the same capacity as the attaches of royalty. One was there to conduct Joan to the presence of Mrs. Twemlow, the housekeeper; the other to lead Ashe to where Beach, the butler, waited to do honor to the valet of the castle's most important guest. After a short walk down a stone-flagged passage Joan and her escort turned to the right. Ashe's objective appeared to be located to the left. He parted from Joan with regret. Her moral support would have been welcome. Presently his scullery maid stopped at a door and tapped thereon. A fruity voice, like old tawny port made audible, said: "Come in!" Ashe's guide opened the door. "The gentleman, Mr. Beach," said she, and scuttled away to the less rarefied atmosphere of the kitchen. Ashe's first impression of Beach, the butler, was one of tension. Other people, confronted for the first time with Beach, had felt the same. He had that strained air of being on the very point of bursting that one sees in bullfrogs and toy balloons. Nervous and imaginative men, meeting Beach, braced themselves involuntarily, stiffening their muscles for the explosion. Those who had the pleasure of more intimate acquaintance with him soon passed this stage, just as people whose homes are on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius become immune to fear of eruptions. As far back as they could remember Beach had always looked as though an apoplectic fit were a matter of minutes; but he never had apoplexy and in time they came to ignore the possibility of it. Ashe, however, approaching him with a fresh eye, had the feeling that this strain could not possibly continue and that within a very short space of time the worst must happen. The prospect of this did much to rouse him from the coma into which he had been frozen by the rigors of the journey. Butlers as a class seem to grow less and less like anything human in proportion to the magnificence of their surroundings. There is a type of butler employed in the comparatively modest homes of small country gentlemen who is practically a man and a brother; who hobnobs with the local tradesmen, sings a good comic song at the village inn, and in times of crisis will even turn to and work the pump when the water supply suddenly fails. The greater the house the more does the butler diverge from this type. Blandings Castle was one of the more important of England's show places, and Beach accordingly had acquired a dignified inertia that almost qualified him for inclusion in the vegetable kingdom. He moved--when he moved at all--slowly. He distilled speech with the air of one measuring out drops of some precious drug. His heavy-lidded eyes had the fixed expression of a statue's. With an almost imperceptible wave of a fat white hand, he conveyed to Ashe that he desired him to sit down. With a stately movement of his other hand, he picked up a kettle, which simmered on the hob. With an inclination of his head, he called Ashe's attention to a decanter on the table. In another moment Ashe was sipping a whisky toddy, with the feeling that he had been privileged to assist at some mystic rite. Mr. Beach, posting himself before the fire and placing his hands behind his back, permitted speech to drip from him. "I have not the advantage of your name, Mr.----" Ashe introduced himself. Beach acknowledged the information with a half bow. "You must have had a cold ride, Mr. Marson. The wind is in the east." Ashe said yes; the ride had been cold. "When the wind is in the east," continued Mr. Beach, letting each syllable escape with apparent reluctance, "I suffer from my feet." "I beg your pardon?" "I suffer from my feet," repeated the butler, measuring out the drops. "You are a young man, Mr. Marson. Probably you do not know what it is to suffer from your feet." He surveyed Ashe, his whisky toddy and the wall beyond him, with heavy-lidded inscrutability. "Corns!" he said. Ashe said he was sorry. "I suffer extremely from my feet--not only corns. I have but recently recovered from an ingrowing toenail. I suffered greatly from my ingrowing toenail. I suffer from swollen joints." Ashe regarded this martyr with increasing disfavor. It is the flaw in the character of many excessively healthy young men that, though kind-hearted enough in most respects, they listen with a regrettable feeling of impatience to the confessions of those less happily situated as regards the ills of the flesh. Rightly or wrongly, they hold that these statements should be reserved for the ear of the medical profession, and other and more general topics selected for conversation with laymen. "I'm sorry," he said hastily. "You must have had a bad time. Is there a large house party here just now?" "We are expecting," said Mr. Beach, "a number of guests. We shall in all probability sit down thirty or more to dinner." "A responsibility for you," said Ashe ingratiatingly, well pleased to be quit of the feet topic. Mr. Beach nodded. "You are right, Mr. Marson. Few persons realize the responsibilities of a man in my position. Sometimes, I can assure you, it preys on my mind, and I suffer from nervous headaches." Ashe began to feel like a man trying to put out a fire which, as fast as he checks it at one point, breaks out at another. "Sometimes when I come off duty everything gets blurred. The outlines of objects grow indistinct and misty. I have to sit down in a chair. The pain is excruciating." "But it helps you to forget the pain in your feet." "No, no. I suffer from my feet simultaneously." Ashe gave up the struggle. "Tell me all about your feet," he said. And Mr. Beach told him all about his feet. The pleasantest functions must come to an end, and the moment arrived when the final word on the subject of swollen joints was spoken. Ashe, who had resigned himself to a permanent contemplation of the subject, could hardly believe he heard correctly when, at the end of some ten minutes, his companion changed the conversation. "You have been with Mr. Peters some time, Mr. Marson?" "Eh? Oh! Oh, no only since last Wednesday." "Indeed! Might I inquire whom you assisted before that?" For a moment Ashe did what he would not have believed himself capable of doing--regretted that the topic of feet was no longer under discussion. The question placed him in an awkward position. If he lied and credited himself with a lengthy experience as a valet, he risked exposing himself. If he told the truth and confessed that this was his maiden effort in the capacity of gentleman's gentleman, what would the butler think? There were objections to each course, but to tell the truth was the easier of the two; so he told it. "Your first situation?" said Mr. Beach. "Indeed!" "I was--er--doing something else before I met Mr. Peters," said Ashe. Mr. Beach was too well-bred to be inquisitive, but his eyebrows were not. "Ah!" he said. "?" cried his eyebrows. "?--?--?" Ashe ignored the eyebrows. "Something different," he said. There was an awkward silence. Ashe appreciated its awkwardness. He was conscious of a grievance against Mr. Peters. Why could not Mr. Peters have brought him down here as his secretary? To be sure, he had advanced some objection to that course in their conversation at the offices of Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole; but merely a silly, far-fetched objection. He wished he had had the sense to fight the point while there was time; but at the moment when they were arranging plans he had been rather tickled by the thought of becoming a valet. The notion had a pleasing musical-comedy touch about it. Why had he not foreseen the complications that must ensue? He could tell by the look on his face that this confounded butler was waiting for him to give a full explanation. What would he think if he withheld it? He would probably suppose that Ashe had been in prison. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. If Beach was suspicious, he must remain suspicious. Fortunately the suspicions of a butler do not matter much. Mr. Beach's eyebrows were still mutely urging him to reveal all, but Ashe directed his gaze at that portion of the room which Mr. Beach did not fill. He would be hanged if he was going to let himself be hypnotized by a pair of eyebrows into incriminating himself! He glared stolidly at the pattern of the wallpaper, which represented a number of birds of an unknown species seated on a corresponding number of exotic shrubs. The silence was growing oppressive. Somebody had to break it soon. And as Mr. Beach was still confining himself to the language of the eyebrow and apparently intended to fight it out on that line if it took all Summer, Ashe himself broke it. It seemed to him as he reconstructed the scene in bed that night that Providence must have suggested the subject to Mr. Peters' indigestion; for the mere mention of his employer's sufferings acted like magic on the butler. "I might have had better luck while I was looking for a place," said Ashe. "I dare say you know how bad-tempered Mr. Peters is. He is dyspeptic." "So," responded Mr. Beach, "I have been informed." He brooded for a space. "I, too," he proceeded, "suffer from my stomach. I have a weak stomach. The lining of my stomach is not what I could wish the lining of my stomach to be." "Tell me," said Ashe gratefully, leaning forward in an attitude of attention, "all about the lining of your stomach." It was a quarter of an hour later when Mr. Beach was checked in his discourse by the chiming of the little clock on the mantelpiece. He turned round and gazed at it with surprise not unmixed with displeasure. "So late?" he said. "I shall have to be going about my duties. And you, also, Mr. Marson, if I may make the suggestion. No doubt Mr. Peters will be wishing to have your assistance in preparing for dinner. If you go along the passage outside you will come to the door that separates our portion of the house from the other. I must beg you to excuse me. I have to go to the cellar." Following his directions Ashe came after a walk of a few yards to a green-baize door, which, swinging at his push, gave him a view of what he correctly took to be the main hall of the castle--a wide, comfortable space, ringed with settees and warmed by a log fire burning in a mammoth fireplace. On the right a broad staircase led to the upper regions. It was at this point that Ashe realized the incompleteness of Mr. Beach's directions. Doubtless, the broad staircase would take him to the floor on which were the bedrooms; but how was he to ascertain, without the tedious process of knocking and inquiring at each door, which was the one assigned to Mr. Peters? It was too late to go back and ask the butler for further guidance; already he was on his way to the cellar in quest of the evening's wine. As he stood irresolute a door across the hall opened and a man of his own age came out. Through the doorway, which the young man held open for an instant while he answered a question from somebody within, Ashe had a glimpse of glass-topped cases. Could this be the museum--his goal? The next moment the door, opening a few inches more, revealed the outlying portions of an Egyptian mummy and brought certainty. It flashed across Ashe's mind that the sooner he explored the museum and located Mr. Peters' scarab, the better. He decided to ask Beach to take him there as soon as he had leisure. Meantime the young man had closed the museum door and was crossing the hall. He was a wiry-haired, severe-looking young man, with a sharp nose and eyes that gleamed through rimless spectacles--none other, in fact than Lord Emsworth's private secretary, the Efficient Baxter. Ashe hailed him: "I say, old man, would you mind telling me how I get to Mr. Peters' room? I've lost my bearings." He did not reflect that this was hardly the way in which valets in the best society addressed their superiors. That is the worst of adopting what might be called a character part. One can manage the business well enough; it is the dialogue that provides the pitfalls. Mr. Baxter would have accorded a hearty agreement to the statement that this was not the way in which a valet should have spoken to him; but at the moment he was not aware that Ashe was a valet. From his easy mode of address he assumed that he was one of the numerous guests who had been arriving at the castle all day. As he had asked for Mr. Peters, he fancied that Ashe must be the Honorable Freddie's American friend, George Emerson, whom he had not yet met. Consequently he replied with much cordiality that Mr. Peters' room was the second at the left on the second floor. He said Ashe could not miss it. Ashe said he was much obliged. "Awfully good of you," said Ashe. "Not at all," said Mr. Baxter. "You lose your way in a place like this," said Ashe. "You certainly do," said Mr. Baxter. Ashe went on his upward path and in a few moments was knocking at the door indicated. And sure enough it was Mr. Peters' voice that invited him to enter. Mr. Peters, partially arrayed in the correct garb for gentlemen about to dine, was standing in front of the mirror, wrestling with his evening tie. As Ashe entered he removed his fingers and anxiously examined his handiwork. It proved unsatisfactory. With a yelp and an oath, he tore the offending linen from his neck. "Damn the thing!" It was plain to Ashe that his employer was in no sunny mood. There are few things less calculated to engender sunniness in a naturally bad-tempered man than a dress tie that will not let itself be pulled and twisted into the right shape. Even when things went well, Mr. Peters hated dressing for dinner. Words cannot describe his feelings when they went wrong. There is something to be said in excuse for this impatience: It is a hollow mockery to be obliged to deck one's person as for a feast when that feast is to consist of a little asparagus and a few nuts. Mr. Peters' eye met Ashe's in the mirror. "Oh, it's you, is it? Come in, then. Don't stand staring. Close that door quick! Hustle! Don't scrape your feet on the floor. Try to look intelligent. Don't gape. Where have you been all this while? Why didn't you come before? Can you tie a tie? All right, then--do it!" Somewhat calmed by the snow-white butterfly-shaped creation that grew under Ashe's fingers, he permitted himself to be helped into his coat. He picked up the remnant of a black cigar from the dressing-table and relit it. "I've been thinking about you," he said. "Yes?" said Ashe. "Have you located the scarab yet?" "No." "What the devil have you been doing with yourself then? You've had time to collar it a dozen times." "I have been talking to the butler." "What the devil do you waste time talking to butlers for? I suppose you haven't even located the museum yet?" "Yes; I've done that." "Oh, you have, have you? Well, that's something. And how do you propose setting about the job?" "The best plan would be to go there very late at night." "Well, you didn't propose to stroll in in the afternoon, did you? How are you going to find the scarab when you do get in?" Ashe had not thought of that. The deeper he went into this business the more things did there seem to be in it of which he had not thought. "I don't know," he confessed. "You don't know! Tell me, young man, are you considered pretty bright, as Englishmen go?" "I am not English. I was born near Boston." "Oh, you were, were you? You blanked bone-headed, bean-eating boob!" cried Mr. Peters, frothing over quite unexpectedly and waving his arms in a sudden burst of fury. "Then if you are an American why don't you show a little more enterprise? Why don't you put something over? Why do you loaf about the place as though you were supposed to be an ornament? I want results--and I want them quick! "I'll tell you how you can recognize my scarab when you get into the museum. That shameless old green-goods man who sneaked it from me has had the gall, the nerve, to put it all by itself, with a notice as big as a circus poster alongside of it saying that it is a Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty, presented"--Mr. Peters choked--"presented by J. Preston Peters, Esquire! That's how you're going to recognize it." Ashe did not laugh, but he nearly dislocated a rib in his effort to abstain from doing so. It seemed to him that this act on Lord Emsworth's part effectually disposed of the theory that Britons have no sense of humor. To rob a man of his choicest possession and then thank him publicly for letting you have it appealed to Ashe as excellent comedy. "The thing isn't even in a glass case," continued Mr. Peters. "It's lying on an open tray on top of a cabinet of Roman coins. Anybody who was left alone for two minutes in the place could take it! It's criminal carelessness to leave a valuable scarab about like that. If Lord Jesse James was going to steal my Cheops he might at least have had the decency to treat it as though it was worth something." "But it makes it easier for me to get it," said Ashe consolingly. "It's got to be made easy if you are to get it!" snapped Mr. Peters. "Here's another thing: You say you are going to try for it late at night. Well, what are you going to do if anyone catches you prowling round at that time? Have you considered that?" "No." "You would have to say something, wouldn't you? You wouldn't chat about the weather, would you? You wouldn't discuss the latest play? You would have to think up some mighty good reason for being out of bed at that time, wouldn't you?" "I suppose so." "Oh, you do admit that, do you? Well, what you would say is this: You would explain that I had rung for you to come and read me to sleep. Do you understand?" "You think that would be a satisfactory explanation of my being in the museum?" "Idiot! I don't mean that you're to say it if you're caught actually in the museum. If you're caught in the museum the best thing you can do is to say nothing, and hope that the judge will let you off light because it's your first offense. You're to say it if you're found wandering about on your way there." "It sounds thin to me." "Does it? Well, let me tell you that it isn't so thin as you suppose, for it's what you will actually have to do most nights. Two nights out of three I have to be read to sleep. My indigestion gives me insomnia." As though to push this fact home, Mr. Peters suddenly bent double. "Oof!" he said. "Wow!" He removed the cigar from his mouth and inserted a digestive tabloid. "The lining of my stomach is all wrong," he added. It is curious how trivial are the immediate causes that produce revolutions. If Mr. Peters had worded his complaint differently Ashe would in all probability have borne it without active protest. He had been growing more and more annoyed with this little person who buzzed and barked and bit at him, yet the idea of definite revolt had not occurred to him. But his sufferings at the hands of Beach, the butler, had reduced him to a state where he could endure no further mention of stomachic linings. There comes a time when our capacity for listening to detailed data about the linings of other people's stomachs is exhausted. He looked at Mr. Peters sternly. He had ceased to be intimidated by the fiery little man and regarded him simply as a hypochondriac, who needed to be told a few useful facts. "How do you expect not to have indigestion? You take no exercise and you smoke all day long." The novel sensation of being criticized--and by a beardless youth at that--held Mr. Peters silent. He started convulsively, but he did not speak. Ashe, on his pet subject, became eloquent. In his opinion dyspeptics cumbered the earth. To his mind they had the choice between health and sickness, and they deliberately chose the latter. "Your sort of man makes me angry. I know your type inside out. You overwork and shirk exercise, and let your temper run away with you, and smoke strong cigars on an empty stomach; and when you get indigestion as a natural result you look on yourself as a martyr, nourish a perpetual grouch, and make the lives of everybody you meet miserable. If you would put yourself into my hands for a month I would have you eating bricks and thriving on them. Up in the morning, Larsen Exercises, cold bath, a brisk rubdown, sharp walk--" "Who the devil asked your opinion, you impertinent young hound?" inquired Mr. Peters. "Don't interrupt--confound you!" shouted Ashe. "Now you have made me forget what I was going to say." There was a tense silence. Then Mr. Peters began to speak: "You--infernal--impudent--" "Don't talk to me like that!" "I'll talk to you just--" Ashe took a step toward the door. "Very well, then," he said. "I'll quit! I'm through! You can get somebody else to do this job of yours for you." The sudden sagging of Mr. Peters' jaw, the look of consternation that flashed on his face, told Ashe he had found the right weapon--that the game was in his hands. He continued with a feeling of confidence: "If I had known what being your valet involved I wouldn't have undertaken the thing for a hundred thousand dollars. Just because you had some idiotic prejudice against letting me come down here as your secretary, which would have been the simple and obvious thing, I find myself in a position where at any moment I may be publicly rebuked by the butler and have the head stillroom maid looking at me as though I were something the cat had brought in." His voice trembled with self-pity. "Do you realize a fraction of the awful things you have let me in for? How on earth am I to remember whether I go in before the chef or after the third footman? I shan't have a peaceful minute while I'm in this place. I've got to sit and listen by the hour to a bore of a butler who seems to be a sort of walking hospital. I've got to steer my way through a complicated system of etiquette. "And on top of all that you have the nerve, the insolence, to imagine that you can use me as a punching bag to work your bad temper off! You have the immortal rind to suppose that I will stand for being nagged and bullied by you whenever your suicidal way of living brings on an attack of indigestion! You have the supreme gall to fancy that you can talk as you please to me! "Very well! I've had enough of it. I resign! If you want this scarab of yours recovered let somebody else do it. I've retired from business." He took another step toward the door. A shaking hand clutched at his sleeve. "My boy--my dear boy--be reasonable!" Ashe was intoxicated with his own oratory. The sensation of bullyragging a genuine millionaire was new and exhilarating. He expanded his chest and spread his feet like a colossus. "That's all very well," he said, coldly disentangling himself from the hand. "You can't get out of it like that. We have got to come to an understanding. The point is that if I am to be subjected to your--your senile malevolence every time you have a twinge of indigestion, no amount of money could pay me to stop on." "My dear boy, it shall not occur again. I was hasty." Mr. Peters, with agitated fingers, relit the stump of his cigar. "Throw away that cigar!" "My boy!" "Throw it away! You say you were hasty. Of course you were hasty; and as long as you abuse your digestion you will go on being hasty. I want something better than apologies. If I am to stop here we must get to the root of things. You must put yourself in my hands as though I were your doctor. No more cigars. Every morning regular exercises." "No, no!" "Very well!" "No; stop! Stop! What sort of exercises?" "I'll show you to-morrow morning. Brisk walks." "I hate walking." "Cold baths." "No, no!" "Very well!" "No; stop! A cold bath would kill me at my age." "It would put new life into you. Do you consent to the cold baths? No? Very well!" "Yes, yes, yes!" "You promise?" "Yes, yes!" "All right, then." The distant sound of the dinner gong floated in. "We settled that just in time," said Ashe. Mr. Peters regarded him fixedly. "Young man," he said slowly, "if, after all this, you fail to recover my Cheops for me I'll--I'll--By George, I'll skin you!" "Don't talk like that," said Ashe. "That's another thing you have got to remember. If my treatment is to be successful you must not let yourself think in that way. You must exercise self-control mentally. You must think beautiful thoughts." "The idea of skinning you is a beautiful thought!" said Mr. Peters wistfully. * * * In order that their gayety might not be diminished--and the food turned to ashes in their mouths by the absence from the festive board of Mr. Beach, it was the custom for the upper servants at Blandings to postpone the start of their evening meal until dinner was nearly over above-stairs. This enabled the butler to take his place at the head of the table without fear of interruption, except for the few moments when coffee was being served. Every night shortly before half-past eight--at which hour Mr. Beach felt that he might safely withdraw from the dining-room and leave Lord Emsworth and his guests to the care of Merridew, the under-butler, and James and Alfred, the footmen, returning only for a few minutes to lend tone and distinction to the distribution of cigars and liqueurs--those whose rank entitled them to do so made their way to the housekeeper's room, to pass in desultory conversation the interval before Mr. Beach should arrive, and a kitchen maid, with the appearance of one who has been straining at the leash and has at last managed to get free, opened the door, with the announcement: "Mr. Beach, if you please, dinner is served." On which Mr. Beach, extending a crooked elbow toward the housekeeper, would say, "Mrs. Twemlow!" and lead the way, high and disposedly, down the passage, followed in order of rank by the rest of the company, in couples, to the steward's room. For Blandings was not one of those houses--or shall we say hovels?--where the upper servants are expected not only to feed but to congregate before feeding in the steward's room. Under the auspices of Mr. Beach and of Mrs. Twemlow, who saw eye to eye with him in these matters, things were done properly at the castle, with the correct solemnity. To Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow the suggestion that they and their peers should gather together in the same room in which they were to dine would have been as repellent as an announcement from Lady Ann Warblington, the chatelaine, that the house party would eat in the drawing-room. When Ashe, returning from his interview with Mr. Peters, was intercepted by a respectful small boy and conducted to the housekeeper's room, he was conscious of a sensation of shrinking inferiority akin to his emotions on his first day at school. The room was full and apparently on very cordial terms with itself. Everybody seemed to know everybody and conversation was proceeding in a manner reminiscent of an Old Home Week. As a matter of fact, the house party at Blandings being in the main a gathering together of the Emsworth clan by way of honor and as a means of introduction to Mr. Peters and his daughter, the bride-of-the-house-to-be, most of the occupants of the housekeeper's room were old acquaintances and were renewing interrupted friendships at the top of their voices. A lull followed Ashe's arrival and all eyes, to his great discomfort, were turned in his direction. His embarrassment was relieved by Mrs. Twemlow, who advanced to do the honors. Of Mrs. Twemlow little need be attempted in the way of pen portraiture beyond the statement that she went as harmoniously with Mr. Beach as one of a pair of vases or one of a brace of pheasants goes with its fellow. She had the same appearance of imminent apoplexy, the same air of belonging to some dignified and haughty branch of the vegetable kingdom. "Mr. Marson, welcome to Blandings Castle!" Ashe had been waiting for somebody to say this, and had been a little surprised that Mr. Beach had not done so. He was also surprised at the housekeeper's ready recognition of his identity, until he saw Joan in the throng and deduced that she must have been the source of information. He envied Joan. In some amazing way she contrived to look not out of place in this gathering. He himself, he felt, had impostor stamped in large characters all over him. Mrs. Twemlow began to make the introductions--a long and tedious process, which she performed relentlessly, without haste and without scamping her work. With each member of the aristocracy of his new profession Ashe shook hands, and on each member he smiled, until his facial and dorsal muscles were like to crack under the strain. It was amazing that so many high-class domestics could be collected into one moderate-sized room. "Miss Simpson you know," said Mrs. Twemlow, and Ashe was about to deny the charge when he perceived that Joan was the individual referred to. "Mr. Judson, Mr. Marson. Mr. Judson is the Honorable Frederick's gentleman." "You have not the pleasure of our Freddie's acquaintance as yet, I take it, Mr. Marson?" observed Mr. Judson genially, a smooth-faced, lazy-looking young man. "Freddie repays inspection." "Mr. Marson, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Ferris, Lord Stockheath's gentleman." Mr. Ferris, a dark, cynical man, with a high forehead, shook Ashe by the hand. "Happy to meet you, Mr. Marson." "Miss Willoughby, this is Mr. Marson, who will take you in to dinner. Miss Willoughby is Lady Mildred Mant's lady. As of course you are aware, Lady Mildred, our eldest daughter, married Colonel Horace Mant, of the Scots Guards." Ashe was not aware, and he was rather surprised that Mrs. Twemlow should have a daughter whose name was Lady Mildred; but reason, coming to his rescue, suggested that by our she meant the offspring of the Earl of Emsworth and his late countess. Miss Willoughby was a light-hearted damsel, with a smiling face and chestnut hair, done low over her forehead. Since etiquette forbade that he should take Joan in to dinner, Ashe was glad that at least an apparently pleasant substitute had been provided. He had just been introduced to an appallingly statuesque lady of the name of Chester, Lady Ann Warblington's own maid, and his somewhat hazy recollections of Joan's lecture on below-stairs precedence had left him with the impression that this was his destined partner. He had frankly quailed at the prospect of being linked to so much aristocratic hauteur. When the final introduction had been made conversation broke out again. It dealt almost exclusively, so far as Ashe could follow it, with the idiosyncrasies of the employers of those present. He took it that this happened down the entire social scale below stairs. Probably the lower servants in the servants' hall discussed the upper servants in the room, and the still lower servants in the housemaids' sitting-room discussed their superiors of the servants' hall, and the stillroom gossiped about the housemaids' sitting-room. He wondered which was the bottom circle of all, and came to the conclusion that it was probably represented by the small respectful boy who had acted as his guide a short while before. This boy, having nobody to discuss anybody with, presumably sat in solitary meditation, brooding on the odd-job man. He thought of mentioning this theory to Miss Willoughby, but decided that it was too abstruse for her, and contented himself with speaking of some of the plays he had seen before leaving London. Miss Willoughby was an enthusiast on the drama; and, Colonel Mant's military duties keeping him much in town, she had had wide opportunities of indulging her tastes. Miss Willoughby did not like the country. She thought it dull. "Don't you think the country dull, Mr. Marson?" "I shan't find it dull here," said Ashe; and he was surprised to discover, through the medium of a pleased giggle, that he was considered to have perpetrated a compliment. Mr. Beach appeared in due season, a little distrait, as becomes a man who has just been engaged on important and responsible duties. "Alfred spilled the hock!" Ashe heard him announce to Mrs. Twemlow in a bitter undertone. "Within half an inch of his lordship's arm he spilled it." Mrs. Twemlow murmured condolences. Mr. Beach's set expression was of one who is wondering how long the strain of existence can be supported. "Mr. Beach, if you please, dinner is served." The butler crushed down sad thoughts and crooked his elbow. "Mrs. Twemlow!" Ashe, miscalculating degrees of rank in spite of all his caution, was within a step of leaving the room out of his proper turn; but the startled pressure of Miss Willoughby's hand on his arm warned him in time. He stopped, to allow the statuesque Miss Chester to sail out under escort of a wizened little man with a horseshoe pin in his tie, whose name, in company with nearly all the others that had been spoken to him since he came into the room, had escaped Ashe's memory. "You were nearly making a bloomer!" said Miss Willoughby brightly. "You must be absent-minded, Mr. Marson--like his lordship." "Is Lord Emsworth absent-minded?" Miss Willoughby laughed. "Why, he forgets his own name sometimes! If it wasn't for Mr. Baxter, goodness knows what would happen to him." "I don't think I know Mr. Baxter." "You will if you stay here long. You can't get away from him if you're in the same house. Don't tell anyone I said so; but he's the real master here. His lordship's secretary he calls himself; but he's really everything rolled into one--like the man in the play." Ashe, searching in his dramatic memories for such a person in a play, inquired whether Miss Willoughby meant Pooh-Bah, in "The Mikado," of which there had been a revival in London recently. Miss Willoughby did mean Pooh-Bah. "But Nosy Parker is what I call him," she said. "He minds everybody's business as well as his own." The last of the procession trickled into the steward's room. Mr. Beach said grace somewhat patronizingly. The meal began. "You've seen Miss Peters, of course, Mr. Marson?" said Miss Willoughby, resuming conversation with the soup. "Just for a few minutes at Paddington." "Oh! You haven't been with Mr. Peters long, then?" Ashe began to wonder whether everybody he met was going to ask him this dangerous question. "Only a day or so." "Where were you before that?" Ashe was conscious of a prickly sensation. A little more of this and he might as well reveal his true mission at the castle and have done with it. "Oh, I was--that is to say----" "How are you feeling after the journey, Mr. Marson?" said a voice from the other side of the table; and Ashe, looking up gratefully, found Joan's eyes looking into his with a curiously amused expression. He was too grateful for the interruption to try to account for this. He replied that he was feeling very well, which was not the case. Miss Willoughby's interest was diverted to a discussion of the defects of the various railroad systems of Great Britain. At the head of the table Mr. Beach had started an intimate conversation with Mr. Ferris, the valet of Lord Stockheath, the Honorable Freddie's "poor old Percy"--a cousin, Ashe had gathered, of Aline Peters' husband-to-be. The butler spoke in more measured tones even than usual, for he was speaking of tragedy. "We were all extremely sorry, Mr. Ferris, to read of your misfortune." Ashe wondered what had been happening to Mr. Ferris. "Yes, Mr. Beach," replied the valet, "it's a fact we made a pretty poor show." He took a sip from his glass. "There is no concealing the fact--I have never tried to conceal it--that poor Percy is not bright." Miss Chester entered the conversation. "I couldn't see where the girl--what's her name? was so very pretty. All the papers had pieces where it said she was attractive, and what not; but she didn't look anything special to me from her photograph in the Mirror. What his lordship could see in her I can't understand." "The photo didn't quite do her justice, Miss Chester. I was present in court, and I must admit she was svelte--decidedly svelte. And you must recollect that Percy, from childhood up, has always been a highly susceptible young nut. I speak as one who knows him." Mr. Beach turned to Joan. "We are speaking of the Stockheath breach-of-promise case, Miss Simpson, of which you doubtless read in the newspapers. Lord Stockheath is a nephew of ours. I fancy his lordship was greatly shocked at the occurrence." "He was," chimed in Mr. Judson from down the table. "I happened to overhear him speaking of it to young Freddie. It was in the library on the morning when the judge made his final summing up and slipped it into Lord Stockheath so proper. 'If ever anything of this sort happens to you, you young scalawag,' he says to Freddie--" Mr. Beach coughed. "Mr. Judson!" "Oh, it's all right, Mr. Beach; we're all in the family here, in a manner of speaking. It wasn't as though I was telling it to a lot of outsiders. I'm sure none of these ladies or gentlemen will let it go beyond this room?" The company murmured virtuous acquiescence. "He says to Freddie: 'You young scalawag, if ever anything of this sort happens to you, you can pack up and go off to Canada, for I'll have nothing more to do with you!'--or words to that effect. And Freddie says: 'Oh, dash it all, gov'nor, you know--what?'" However short Mr. Judson's imitation of his master's voice may have fallen of histrionic perfection, it pleased the company. The room shook with mirth. "Mr. Judson is clever, isn't he, Mr. Marson?" whispered Miss Willoughby, gazing with adoring eyes at the speaker. Mr. Beach thought it expedient to deflect the conversation. By the unwritten law of the room every individual had the right to speak as freely as he wished about his own personal employer; but Judson, in his opinion, sometimes went a trifle too far. "Tell me, Mr. Ferris," he said, "does his lordship seem to bear it well?" "Oh, Percy is bearing it well enough." Ashe noted as a curious fact that, though the actual valet of any person under discussion spoke of him almost affectionately by his Christian name, the rest of the company used the greatest ceremony and gave him his title with all respect. Lord Stockheath was Percy to Mr. Ferris, and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood was Freddie to Mr. Judson; but to Ferris, Mr. Judson's Freddie was the Honorable Frederick, and to Judson Mr. Ferris' Percy was Lord Stockheath. It was rather a pleasant form of etiquette, and struck Ashe as somehow vaguely feudal. "Percy," went on Mr. Ferris, "is bearing it like a little Briton--the damages not having come out of his pocket! It's his old father--who had to pay them--that's taking it to heart. You might say he's doing himself proud. He says it's brought on his gout again, and that's why he's gone to Droitwich instead of coming here. I dare say Percy isn't sorry." "It has been," said Mr. Beach, summing up, "a most unfortunate occurrence. The modern tendency of the lower classes to get above themselves is becoming more marked every day. The young female in this case was, I understand, a barmaid. It is deplorable that our young men should allow themselves to get into such entanglements." "The wonder to me," said the irrepressible Mr. Judson, "is that more of these young chaps don't get put through it. His lordship wasn't so wide of the mark when he spoke like that to Freddie in the library that time. I give you my word, it's a mercy young Freddie hasn't been up against it! When we were in London, Freddie and I," he went on, cutting through Mr. Beach's disapproving cough, "before what you might call the crash, when his lordship cut off supplies and had him come back and live here, Freddie was asking for it--believe me! Fell in love with a girl in the chorus of one of the theaters. Used to send me to the stage door with notes and flowers every night for weeks, as regular as clockwork. "What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue. Funny how you forget these things! Freddie was pretty far gone. I recollect once, happening to be looking round his room in his absence, coming on a poem he had written to her. It was hot stuff--very hot! If that girl has kept those letters it's my belief we shall see Freddie following in Lord Stockheath's footsteps." There was a hush of delighted horror round the table. "Goo'," said Miss Chester's escort with unction. "You don't say so, Mr. Judson! It wouldn't half make them look silly if the Honorable Frederick was sued for breach just now, with the wedding coming on!" "There is no danger of that." It was Joan's voice, and she had spoken with such decision that she had the ear of the table immediately. All eyes looked in her direction. Ashe was struck with her expression. Her eyes were shining as though she were angry; and there was a flush on her face. A phrase he had used in the train came back to him. She looked like a princess in disguise. "What makes you say that, Miss Simpson?" inquired Judson, annoyed. He had been at pains to make the company's flesh creep, and it appeared to be Joan's aim to undo his work. It seemed to Ashe that Joan made an effort of some sort as though she were pulling herself together and remembering where she was. "Well," she said, almost lamely, "I don't think it at all likely that he proposed marriage to this girl." "You never can tell," said Judson. "My impression is that Freddie did. It's my belief that there's something on his mind these days. Before he went to London with his lordship the other day he was behaving very strange. And since he came back it's my belief that he has been brooding. And I happen to know he followed the affair of Lord Stockheath pretty closely, for he clipped the clippings out of the paper. I found them myself one day when I happened to be going through his things." Beach cleared his throat--his mode of indicating that he was about to monopolize the conversation. "And in any case, Miss Simpson," he said solemnly, "with things come to the pass they have come to, and the juries--drawn from the lower classes--in the nasty mood they're in, it don't seem hardly necessary in these affairs for there to have been any definite promise of marriage. What with all this socialism rampant, they seem so happy at the idea of being able to do one of us an injury that they give heavy damages without it. A few ardent expressions, and that's enough for them. You recollect the Havant case, and when young Lord Mount Anville was sued? What it comes to is that anarchy is getting the upper hand, and the lower classes are getting above themselves. It's all these here cheap newspapers that does it. They tempt the lower classes to get above themselves. "Only this morning I had to speak severe to that young fellow, James, the footman. He was a good young fellow once and did his work well, and had a proper respect for people; but now he's gone all to pieces. And why? Because six months ago he had the rheumatism, and had the audacity to send his picture and a testimonial, saying that it had cured him of awful agonies, to Walkinshaw's Supreme Ointment, and they printed it in half a dozen papers; and it has been the ruin of James. He has got above himself and don't care for nobody." "Well, all I can say is," resumed Judson, "that I hope to goodness nothing won't happen to Freddie of that kind; for it's not every girl that would have him." There was a murmur of assent to this truth. "Now your Miss Peters," said Judson tolerantly--"she seems a nice little thing." "She would be pleased to hear you say so," said Joan. "Joan Valentine!" cried Judson, bringing his hands down on the tablecloth with a bang. "I've just remembered it. That was the name of the girl Freddie used to write the letters and poems to; and that's who it is I've been trying all along to think you reminded me of, Miss Simpson. You're the living image of Freddie's Miss Joan Valentine." Ashe was not normally a young man of particularly ready wit; but on this occasion it may have been that the shock of this revelation, added to the fact that something must be done speedily if Joan's discomposure was not to become obvious to all present, quickened his intelligence. Joan, usually so sure of herself, so ready of resource, had gone temporarily to pieces. She was quite white, and her eyes met Ashe's with almost a hunted expression. If the attention of the company was to be diverted, something drastic must be done. A mere verbal attempt to change the conversation would be useless. Inspiration descended on Ashe. In the days of his childhood in Hayling, Massachusetts, he had played truant from Sunday school again and again in order to frequent the society of one Eddie Waffles, the official bad boy of the locality. It was not so much Eddie's charm of conversation which had attracted him--though that had been great--as the fact that Eddie, among his other accomplishments, could give a lifelike imitation of two cats fighting in a back yard; and Ashe felt that he could never be happy until he had acquired this gift from the master. In course of time he had done so. It might be that his absences from Sunday school in the cause of art had left him in later years a trifle shaky on the subject of the Kings of Judah, but his hard-won accomplishment had made him in request at every smoking concert at Oxford; and it saved the situation now. "Have you ever heard two cats fighting in a back yard?" he inquired casually of his neighbor, Miss Willoughby. The next moment the performance was in full swing. Young Master Waffles, who had devoted considerable study to his subject, had conceived the combat of his imaginary cats in a broad, almost Homeric, vein. The unpleasantness opened with a low gurgling sound, answered by another a shade louder and possibly more querulous. A momentary silence was followed by a long-drawn note, like rising wind, cut off abruptly and succeeded by a grumbling mutter. The response to this was a couple of sharp howls. Both parties to the contest then indulged in a discontented whining, growing louder and louder until the air was full of electric menace. And then, after another sharp silence, came war, noisy and overwhelming. Standing at Master Waffles' side, you could follow almost every movement of that intricate fray, and mark how now one and now the other of the battlers gained a short-lived advantage. It was a great fight. Shrewd blows were taken and given, and in the eye of the imagination you could see the air thick with flying fur. Louder and louder grew the din; and then, at its height, it ceased in one crescendo of tumult, and all was still, save for a faint, angry moaning. Such was the cat fight of Master Eddie Waffles; and Ashe, though falling short of the master, as a pupil must, rendered it faithfully and with energy. To say that the attention of the company was diverted from Mr. Judson and his remarks by the extraordinary noises which proceeded from Ashe's lips would be to offer a mere shadowy suggestion of the sensation caused by his efforts. At first, stunned surprise, then consternation, greeted him. Beach, the butler, was staring as one watching a miracle, nearer apparently to apoplexy than ever. On the faces of the others every shade of emotion was to be seen. That this should be happening in the steward's room at Blandings Castle was scarcely less amazing than if it had taken place in a cathedral. The upper servants, rigid in their seats, looked at each other, like Cortes' soldiers--"with a wild surmise." The last faint moan of feline defiance died away and silence fell on the room. Ashe turned to Miss Willoughby. "Just like that!" he said. "I was telling Miss Willoughby," he added apologetically to Mrs. Twemlow, "about the cats in London. They were a great trial." For perhaps three seconds his social reputation swayed to and fro in the balance, while the company pondered on what he had done. It was new; but it was humorous--or was it vulgar? There is nothing the English upper servant so abhors as vulgarity. That was what the steward's room was trying to make up its mind about. Then Miss Willoughby threw her shapely head back and the squeal of her laughter smote the ceiling. And at that the company made its decision. Everybody laughed. Everybody urged Ashe to give an encore. Everybody was his friend and admirer---everybody but Beach, the butler. Beach, the butler, was shocked to his very core. His heavy-lidded eyes rested on Ashe with disapproval. It seemed to Beach, the butler, that this young man Marson had got above himself. * * * Ashe found Joan at his side. Dinner was over and the diners were making for the housekeeper's room. "Thank you, Mr. Marson. That was very good of you and very clever." Her eyes twinkled. "But what a terrible chance you took! You have made yourself a popular success, but you might just as easily have become a social outcast. As it is, I am afraid Mr. Beach did not approve." "I'm afraid he didn't. In a minute or so I'm going to fawn on him and make all well." Joan lowered her voice. "It was quite true, what that odious little man said. Freddie Threepwood did write me letters. Of course I destroyed them long ago." "But weren't you running the risk in coming here that he might recognize you? Wouldn't that make it rather unpleasant for you?" "I never met him, you see. He only wrote to me. When he came to the station to meet us this evening he looked startled to see me; so I suppose he remembers my appearance. But Aline will have told him that my name is Simpson." "That fellow Judson said he was brooding. I think you ought to put him out of his misery." "Mr. Judson must have been letting his imagination run away with him. He is out of his misery. He sent a horrid fat man named Jones to see me in London about the letters, and I told him I had destroyed them. He must have let him know that by this time." "I see." They went into the housekeeper's room. Mr. Beach was standing before the fire. Ashe went up to him. It was not an easy matter to mollify Mr. Beach. Ashe tried the most tempting topics. He mentioned swollen feet--he dangled the lining of Mr. Beach's stomach temptingly before his eyes; but the butler was not to be softened. Only when Ashe turned the conversation to the subject of the museum did a flicker of animation stir him. Mr. Beach was fond and proud of the Blandings Castle museum. It had been the means of getting him into print for the first and only time in his life. A year before, a representative of the Intelligencer and Echo, from the neighboring town of Blatchford, had come to visit the castle on behalf of his paper; and he had begun one section of his article with the words: "Under the auspices of Mr. Beach, my genial cicerone, I then visited his lordship's museum--" Mr. Beach treasured the clipping in a special writing-desk. He responded almost amiably to Ashe's questions. Yes; he had seen the scarab--he pronounced it scayrub--which Mr. Peters had presented to his lordship. He understood that his lordship thought very highly of Mr. Peters' scayrub. He had overheard Mr. Baxter telling his lordship that it was extremely valuable. "Mr. Beach," said Ashe, "I wonder whether you would take me to see Lord Emsworth's museum?" Mr. Beach regarded him heavily. "I shall be pleased to take you to see his lordship's museum," he replied. * * * One can attribute only to the nervous mental condition following the interview he had had with Ashe in his bedroom the rash act Mr. Peters attempted shortly after dinner. Mr. Peters, shortly after dinner, was in a dangerous and reckless mood. He had had a wretched time all through the meal. The Blandings chef had extended himself in honor of the house party, and had produced a succession of dishes, which in happier days Mr. Peters would have devoured eagerly. To be compelled by considerations of health to pass these by was enough to damp the liveliest optimist. Mr. Peters had suffered terribly. Occasions of feasting and revelry like the present were for him so many battlefields, on which greed fought with prudence. All through dinner he brooded on Ashe's defiance and the horrors which were to result from that defiance. One of Mr. Peters' most painful memories was of a two weeks' visit he had once paid to Mr. Muldoon in his celebrated establishment at White Plains. He had been persuaded to go there by a brother millionaire whom, until then, he had always regarded as a friend. The memory of Mr. Muldoon's cold shower baths and brisk system of physical exercise still lingered. The thought that under Ashe's rule he was to go through privately very much what he had gone through in the company of a gang of other unfortunates at Muldoon's froze him with horror. He knew those health cranks who believed that all mortal ailments could be cured by cold showers and brisk walks. They were all alike and they nearly killed you. His worst nightmare was the one where he dreamed he was back at Muldoon's, leading his horse up that endless hill outside the village. He would not stand it! He would be hanged if he'd stand it! He would defy Ashe. But if he defied Ashe, Ashe would go away; and then whom could he find to recover his lost scarab? Mr. Peters began to appreciate the true meaning of the phrase about the horns of a dilemma. The horns of this dilemma occupied his attention until the end of the dinner. He shifted uneasily from one to the other and back again. He rose from the table in a thoroughly overwrought condition of mind. And then, somehow, in the course of the evening, he found himself alone in the hall, not a dozen feet from the unlocked museum door. It was not immediately that he appreciated the significance of this fact. He had come to the hall because its solitude suited his mood. It was only after he had finished a cigar--Ashe could not stop his smoking after dinner--that it suddenly flashed on him that he had ready at hand a solution of all his troubles. A brief minute's resolute action and the scarab would be his again, and the menace of Ashe a thing of the past. He glanced about him. Yes; he was alone. Not once since the removal of the scarab had begun to exercise his mind had Mr. Peters contemplated for an instant the possibility of recovering it himself. The prospect of the unpleasantness that would ensue had been enough to make him regard such an action as out of the question. The risk was too great to be considered for a moment; but here he was, in a position where the risk was negligible! Like Ashe, he had always visualized the recovery of his scarab as a thing of the small hours, a daring act to be performed when sleep held the castle in its grip. That an opportunity would be presented to him of walking in quite calmly and walking out again with the Cheops in his pocket, had never occurred to him as a possibility. Yet now this chance was presenting itself in all its simplicity, and all he had to do was to grasp it. The door of the museum was not even closed. He could see from where he stood that it was ajar. He moved cautiously in its direction--not in a straight line as one going to a museum, but circuitously as one strolling without an aim. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder. He reached the door, hesitated, and passed it. He turned, reached the door again--and again passed it. He stood for a moment darting his eyes about the hall; then, in a burst of resolution, he dashed for the door and shot in like a rabbit. At the same moment the Efficient Baxter, who, from the shelter of a pillar on the gallery that ran around two-thirds of the hall, had been eyeing the peculiar movements of the distinguished guest with considerable interest for some minutes, began to descend the stairs. Rupert Baxter, the Earl of Emsworth's indefatigable private secretary, was one of those men whose chief characteristic is a vague suspicion of their fellow human beings. He did not suspect them of this or that definite crime; he simply suspected them. He prowled through life as we are told the hosts of Midian prowled. His powers in this respect were well-known at Blandings Castle. The Earl of Emsworth said: "Baxter is invaluable--positively invaluable." The Honorable Freddie said: "A chappie can't take a step in this bally house without stumbling over that damn feller, Baxter!" The manservant and the maidservant within the gates, like Miss Willoughby, employing that crisp gift for characterization which is the property of the English lower orders, described him as a Nosy Parker. Peering over the railing of the balcony and observing the curious movements of Mr. Peters, who, as a matter of fact, while making up his mind to approach the door, had been backing and filling about the hall in a quaint serpentine manner like a man trying to invent a new variety of the tango, the Efficient Baxter had found himself in some way--why, he did not know--of what, he could not say--but in some nebulous way, suspicious. He had not definitely accused Mr. Peters in his mind of any specific tort or malfeasance. He had merely felt that something fishy was toward. He had a sixth sense in such matters. But when Mr. Peters, making up his mind, leaped into the museum, Baxter's suspicions lost their vagueness and became crystallized. Certainty descended on him like a bolt from the skies. On oath, before a notary, the Efficient Baxter would have declared that J. Preston Peters was about to try to purloin the scarab. Lest we should seem to be attributing too miraculous powers of intuition to Lord Emsworth's secretary, it should be explained that the mystery which hung about that curio had exercised his mind not a little since his employer had given it to him to place in the museum. He knew Lord Emsworth's power of forgetting and he did not believe his account of the transaction. Scarab maniacs like Mr. Peters did not give away specimens from their collections as presents. But he had not divined the truth of what had happened in London. The conclusion at which he had arrived was that Lord Emsworth had bought the scarab and had forgotten all about it. To support this theory was the fact that the latter had taken his check book to London with him. Baxter's long acquaintance with the earl had left him with the conviction that there was no saying what he might not do if left loose in London with a check book. As to Mr. Peters' motive for entering the museum, that, too, seemed completely clear to the secretary. He was a curio enthusiast himself and he had served collectors in a secretarial capacity; and he knew, both from experience and observation, that strange madness which may at any moment afflict the collector, blotting out morality and the nice distinction between meum and tuum, as with a sponge. He knew that collectors who would not steal a loaf if they were starving might--and did--fall before the temptation of a coveted curio. He descended the stairs three at a time, and entered the museum at the very instant when Mr. Peters' twitching fingers were about to close on his treasure. He handled the delicate situation with eminent tact. Mr. Peters, at the sound of his step, had executed a backward leap, which was as good as a confession of guilt, and his face was rigid with dismay; but the Efficient Baxter pretended not to notice these phenomena. His manner, when he spoke, was easy and unembarrassed. "Ah! Taking a look at our little collection, Mr. Peters? You will see that we have given the place of honor to your Cheops. It is certainly a fine specimen--a wonderfully fine specimen." Mr. Peters was recovering slowly. Baxter talked on, to give him time. He spoke of Mut and Bubastis, of Ammon and the Book of the Dead. He directed the other's attention to the Roman coins. He was touching on some aspects of the Princess Gilukhipa of Mitanni, in whom his hearer could scarcely fail to be interested, when the door opened and Beach, the butler, came in, accompanied by Ashe. In the bustle of the interruption Mr. Peters escaped, glad to be elsewhere, and questioning for the first time in his life the dictum that if you want a thing well done you must do it yourself. "I was not aware, sir," said Beach, the butler, "that you were in occupation of the museum. I would not have intruded; but this young man expressed a desire to examine the exhibits, and I took the liberty of conducting him." "Come in, Beach--come in," said Baxter. The light fell on Ashe's face, and he recognized him as the cheerful young man who had inquired the way to Mr. Peters' room before dinner and who, he had by this time discovered, was not the Honorable Freddie's friend, George Emerson--or, indeed, any other of the guests of the house. He felt suspicious. "Oh, Beach!" "Sir?" "Just a moment." He drew the butler into the hall, out of earshot. "Beach, who is that man?" "Mr. Peters' valet, sir." "Mr. Peters' valet!" "Yes, sir." "Has he been in service long?" asked Baxter, remembering that a mere menial had addressed him as "old man." Beach lowered his voice. He and the Efficient Baxter were old allies, and it seemed right to Beach to confide in him. "He has only just joined Mr. Peters, sir; and he has never been in service before. He told me so himself, and I was unable to elicit from him any information as to his antecedents. His manner struck me, sir, as peculiar. It crossed my mind to wonder whether Mr. Peters happened to be aware of this. I should dislike to do any young man an injury; but it might be anyone coming to a gentleman without a character, like this young man. Mr. Peters might have been deceived, sir." The Efficient Baxter's manner became distraught. His mind was working rapidly. "Should he be informed, sir?" "Eh! Who?" "Mr. Peters, sir--in case he should have been deceived?" "No, no; Mr. Peters knows his own business." "Far from me be it to appear officious, sir; but--" "Mr. Peters probably knows all about him. Tell me, Beach, who was it suggested this visit to the museum? Did you?" "It was at the young man's express desire that I conducted him, sir." The Efficient Baxter returned to the museum without a word. Ashe, standing in the middle of the room, was impressing the topography of the place on his memory. He was unaware of the piercing stare of suspicion that was being directed at him from behind. He did not see Baxter. He was not even thinking of Baxter; but Baxter was on the alert. Baxter was on the warpath. Baxter knew! CHAPTER VI Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing Fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment. As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind that looks askance at Fate bearing gifts. We miss, perhaps, the occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly into traps. Ashe Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust; and when Fate seemed to be treating him kindly he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on their face value and rejoice at them. As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in Castle Blandings, he was conscious to a remarkable degree that Fortune was treating him well. He had survived--not merely without discredit, but with positive triumph--the initiatory plunge into the etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs. So far from doing the wrong thing and drawing down on himself the just scorn of the steward's room, he had been the life and soul of the party. Even if to-morrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate the groom of the chambers in the march to the table, he would be forgiven; for the humorist has his privileges. So much for that. But that was only a part of Fortune's kindnesses. To have discovered on the first day of their association the correct method of handling and reducing to subjection his irascible employer was an even greater boon. A prolonged association with Mr. Peters on the lines in which their acquaintance had begun would have been extremely trying. Now, by virtue of a fortunate stand at the outset, he had spiked the millionaire's guns. Thirdly, and most important of all, he had not only made himself familiar with the locality and surroundings of the scarab, but he had seen, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the removal of it and the earning of the five thousand dollars would be the simplest possible task. Already he was spending the money in his mind. And to such lengths had optimism led him that, as he sat on his bed reviewing the events of the day, his only doubt was whether to get the scarab at once or to let it remain where it was until he had the opportunity of doing Mr. Peters' interior good on the lines he had mapped out in their conversation; for, of course, directly he had restored the scarab to its rightful owner and pocketed the reward, his position as healer and trainer to the millionaire would cease automatically. He was sorry for that, because it troubled him to think that a sick man would not be made well; but, on the whole, looking at it from every aspect, it would be best to get the scarab as soon as possible and leave Mr. Peters' digestion to look after itself. Being twenty-six and an optimist, he had no suspicion that Fate might be playing with him; that Fate might have unpleasant surprises in store; that Fate even now was preparing to smite him in his hour of joy with that powerful weapon, the Efficient Baxter. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to one. He had no idea whether they kept early hours at Blandings Castle or not, but he deemed it prudent to give the household another hour in which to settle down. After which he would just trot down and collect the scarab. The novel he had brought down with him from London fortunately proved interesting. Two o'clock came before he was ready for it. He slipped the book into his pocket and opened the door. All was still--still and uncommonly dark. Along the corridor on which his room was situated the snores of sleeping domestics exploded, growled and twittered in the air. Every menial on the list seemed to be snoring, some in one key, some in another, some defiantly, some plaintively; but the main fact was that they were all snoring somehow, thus intimating that, so far as this side of the house was concerned, the coast might be considered clear and interruption of his plans a negligible risk. Researches made at an earlier hour had familiarized him with the geography of the place. He found his way to the green-baize door without difficulty and, stepping through, was in the hall, where the remains of the log fire still glowed a fitful red. This, however, was the only illumination, and it was fortunate that he did not require light to guide him to the museum. He knew the direction and had measured the distance. It was precisely seventeen steps from where he stood. Cautiously, and with avoidance of noise, he began to make the seventeen steps. He was beginning the eleventh when he bumped into somebody-- somebody soft--somebody whose hand, as it touched his, felt small and feminine. The fragment of a log fell on the ashes and the fire gave a dying spurt. Darkness succeeded the sudden glow. The fire was out. That little flame had been its last effort before expiring, but it had been enough to enable him to recognize Joan Valentine. "Good Lord!" he gasped. His astonishment was short-lived. Next moment the only thing that surprised him was the fact that he was not more surprised. There was something about this girl that made the most bizarre happenings seem right and natural. Ever since he had met her his life had changed from an orderly succession of uninteresting days to a strange carnival of the unexpected, and use was accustoming him to it. Life had taken on the quality of a dream, in which anything might happen and in which everything that did happen was to be accepted with the calmness natural in dreams. It was strange that she should be here in the pitch-dark hall in the middle of the night; but--after all--no stranger than that he should be. In this dream world in which he now moved it had to be taken for granted that people did all sorts of odd things from all sorts of odd motives. "Hello!" he said. "Don't be alarmed." "No, no!" "I think we are both here for the same reason." "You don't mean to say--" "Yes; I have come here to earn the five thousand dollars, too, Mr. Marson. We are rivals." In his present frame of mind it seemed so simple and intelligible to Ashe that he wondered whether he was really hearing it the first time. He had an odd feeling that he had known this all along. "You are here to get the scarab?" "Exactly." Ashe was dimly conscious of some objection to this, but at first it eluded him. Then he pinned it down. "But you aren't a young man of good appearance," he said. "I don't know what you mean. But Aline Peters is an old friend of mine. She told me her father would give a large reward to whoever recovered the scarab; so I--" "Look out!" whispered Ashe. "Run! There's somebody coming!" There was a soft footfall on the stairs, a click, and above Ashe's head a light flashed out. He looked round. He was alone, and the green-baize door was swaying gently to and fro. "Who's that? Who's there?" said a voice. The Efficient Baxter was coming down the broad staircase. A general suspicion of mankind and a definite and particular suspicion of one individual made a bad opiate. For over an hour sleep had avoided the Efficient Baxter with an unconquerable coyness. He had tried all the known ways of wooing slumber, but they had failed him, from the counting of sheep downward. The events of the night had whipped his mind to a restless activity. Try as he might to lose consciousness, the recollection of the plot he had discovered surged up and kept him wakeful. It is the penalty of the suspicious type of mind that it suffers from its own activity. From the moment he detected Mr. Peters in the act of rifling the museum and marked down Ashe as an accomplice, Baxter's repose was doomed. Nor poppy nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy sirups of the world, could ever medicine him to that sweet sleep which he owed yesterday. But it was the recollection that on previous occasions of wakefulness hot whisky and water had done the trick, which had now brought him from his bed and downstairs. His objective was the decanter on the table of the smoking-room, which was one of the rooms opening on the gallery that looked down on the hall. Hot water he could achieve in his bedroom by means of his stove. So out of bed he had climbed and downstairs he had come; and here he was, to all appearances, just in time to foil the very plot on which he had been brooding. Mr. Peters might be in bed, but there in the hall below him stood the accomplice, not ten paces from the museum's door. He arrived on the spot at racing speed and confronted Ashe. "What are you doing here?" And then, from the Baxter viewpoint, things began to go wrong. By all the rules of the game, Ashe, caught, as it were, red-handed, should have wilted, stammered and confessed all; but Ashe was fortified by that philosophic calm which comes to us in dreams, and, moreover, he had his story ready. "Mr. Peters rang for me, sir." He had never expected to feel grateful to the little firebrand who employed him, but he had to admit that the millionaire, in their late conversation, had shown forethought. The thought struck him that but for Mr. Peters' advice he might by now be in an extremely awkward position; for his was not a swiftly inventive mind. "Rang for you? At half-past two in the morning!" "To read to him, sir." "To read to him at this hour?" "Mr. Peters suffers from insomnia, sir. He has a weak digestion and pain sometimes prevents him from sleeping. The lining of his stomach is not at all what it should be." "I don't believe a word of it." With that meekness which makes the good man wronged so impressive a spectacle, Ashe produced and exhibited his novel. "Here is the book I am about to read to him. I think, sir, if you will excuse me, I had better be going to his room. Good night, sir." He proceeded to mount the stairs. He was sorry for Mr. Peters, so shortly about to be roused from a refreshing slumber; but these were life's tragedies and must be borne bravely. The Efficient Baxter dogged him the whole way, sprinting silently in his wake and dodging into the shadows whenever the light of an occasional electric bulb made it inadvisable to keep to the open. Then abruptly he gave up the pursuit. For the first time his comparative impotence in this silent conflict on which he had embarked was made manifest to him, and he perceived that on mere suspicion, however strong, he could do nothing. To accuse Mr. Peters of theft or to accuse him of being accessory to a theft was out of the question. Yet his whole being revolted at the thought of allowing the sanctity of the museum to be violated. Officially its contents belonged to Lord Emsworth, but ever since his connection with the castle he had been put in charge of them, and he had come to look on them as his own property. If he was only a collector by proxy he had, nevertheless, the collector's devotion to his curios, beside which the lioness' attachment to her cubs is tepid; and he was prepared to do anything to retain in his possession a scarab toward which he already entertained the feelings of a life proprietor. No--not quite anything! He stopped short at the idea of causing unpleasantness between the father of the Honorable Freddie and the father of the Honorable Freddie's fiancee. His secretarial position at the castle was a valuable one and he was loath to jeopardize it. There was only one way in which this delicate affair could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. It was obvious from what he had seen that night that Mr. Peters' connection with the attempt on the scarab was to be merely sympathetic, and that the actual theft was to be accomplished by Ashe. His only course, therefore, was to catch Ashe actually in the museum. Then Mr. Peters need not appear in the matter at all. Mr. Peters' position in those circumstances would be simply that of a man who had happened to employ, through no fault of his own, a valet who happened to be a thief. He had made a mistake, he perceived, in locking the door of the museum. In future he must leave it open, as a trap is open; and he must stay up nights and keep watch. With these reflections, the Efficient Baxter returned to his room. Meantime Ashe had entered Mr. Peters' bedroom and switched on the light. Mr. Peters, who had just succeeded in dropping off to sleep, sat up with a start. "I've come to read to you," said Ashe. Mr. Peters emitted a stifled howl, in which wrath and self-pity were nicely blended. "You fool, don't you know I have just managed to get to sleep?" "And now you're awake again," said Ashe soothingly. "Such is life! A little rest, a little folding of the hands in sleep, and then bing!--off we go again. I hope you will like this novel. I dipped into it and it seems good." "What do you mean by coming in here at this time of night? Are you crazy?" "It was your suggestion; and, by the way, I must thank you for it. I apologize for calling it thin. It worked like a charm. I don't think he believed it--in fact, I know he didn't; but it held him. I couldn't have thought up anything half so good in an emergency." Mr. Peters' wrath changed to excitement. "Did you get it? Have you been after my--my Cheops?" "I have been after your Cheops, but I didn't get it. Bad men were abroad. That fellow with the spectacles, who was in the museum when I met you there this evening, swooped down from nowhere, and I had to tell him that you had rung for me to read to you. Fortunately I had this novel on me. I think he followed me upstairs to see whether I really did come to your room." Mr. Peters groaned miserably. "Baxter," he said; "He's a man named Baxter--Lord Emsworth's private secretary; and he suspects us. He's the man we--I mean you--have got to look out for." "Well, never mind. Let's be happy while we can. Make yourself comfortable and I'll start reading. After all, what could be pleasanter than a little literature in the small hours? Shall I begin?" * * * Ashe Marson found Joan Valentine in the stable yard after breakfast the next morning, playing with a retriever puppy. "Will you spare me a moment of your valuable time?" "Certainly, Mr. Marson." "Shall we walk out into the open somewhere--where we can't be overheard?" "Perhaps it would be better." They moved off. "Request your canine friend to withdraw," said Ashe. "He prevents me from marshaling my thoughts." "I'm afraid he won't withdraw." "Never mind. I'll do my best in spite of him. Tell me, was I dreaming or did I really meet you in the hall this morning at about twenty minutes after two?" "You did." "And did you really tell me that you had come to the castle to steal--" "Recover." "--Recover Mr. Peters' scarab?" "I did." "Then it's true?" "It is." Ashe scraped the ground with a meditative toe. "This," he said, "seems to me to complicate matters somewhat." "It complicates them abominably!" "I suppose you were surprised when you found that I was on the same game as yourself." "Not in the least." "You weren't!" "I knew it directly I saw the advertisement in the Morning Post. And I hunted up the Morning Post directly you had told me that you had become Mr. Peters' valet." "You have known all along!" "I have." Ashe regarded her admiringly. "You're wonderful!" "Because I saw through you?" "Partly that; but chiefly because you had the pluck to undertake a thing like this." "You undertook it." "But I'm a man." "And I'm a woman. And my theory, Mr. Marson, is that a woman can do nearly everything better than a man. What a splendid test case this would make to settle the Votes-for-Women question once and for all! Here we are--you and I--a man and a woman, each trying for the same thing and each starting with equal chances. Suppose I beat you? How about the inferiority of women then?" "I never said women were inferior." "You did with your eyes." "Besides, you're an exceptional woman." "You can't get out of it with a compliment. I'm an ordinary woman and I'm going to beat a real man." Ashe frowned. "I don't like to think of ourselves as working against each other." "Why not?" "Because I like you." "I like you, Mr. Marson; but we must not let sentiment interfere with business. You want Mr. Peters' five thousand dollars. So do I." "I hate the thought of being the instrument to prevent you from getting the money." "You won't be. I shall be the instrument to prevent you from getting it. I don't like that thought, either; but one has got to face it." "It makes me feel mean." "That's simply your old-fashioned masculine attitude toward the female, Mr. Marson. You look on woman as a weak creature, to be shielded and petted. We aren't anything of the sort. We're terrors! We're as hard as nails. We're awful creatures. You mustn't let my sex interfere with your trying to get this reward. Think of me as though I were another man. We're up against each other in a fair fight, and I don't want any special privileges. If you don't do your best from now onward I shall never forgive you. Do you understand?" "I suppose so." "And we shall need to do our best. That little man with the glasses is on his guard. I was listening to you last night from behind the door. By the way, you shouldn't have told me to run away and then have stayed yourself to be caught. That is an example of the sort of thing I mean. It was chivalry--not business." "I had a story ready to account for my being there. You had not." "And what a capital story it was! I shall borrow it for my own use. If I am caught I shall say I had to read Aline to sleep because she suffers from insomnia. And I shouldn't wonder if she did--poor girl! She doesn't get enough to eat. She is being starved--poor child! I heard one of the footmen say that she refused everything at dinner last night. And, though she vows it isn't, my belief is that it's all because she is afraid to make a stand against her old father. It's a shame!" "She is a weak creature, to be shielded and petted," said Ashe solemnly. Joan laughed. "Well, yes; you caught me there. I admit that poor Aline is not a shining example of the formidable modern woman; but--" She stopped. "Oh, bother! I've just thought of what I ought to have said--the good repartee that would have crushed you. I suppose it's too late now?" "Not at all. I'm like that myself--only it is generally the next day when I hit the right answer. Shall we go back? . . . She is a weak creature, to be shielded and petted." "Thank you so much," said Joan gratefully. "And why is she a weak creature? Because she has allowed herself to be shielded and petted; because she has permitted man to give her special privileges, and generally--No; it isn't so good as I thought it was going to be." "It should be crisper," said Ashe critically. "It lacks the punch." "But it brings me back to my point, which is that I am not going to imitate her and forfeit my independence of action in return for chivalry. Try to look at it from my point of view, Mr. Marson. I know you need the money just as much as I do. Well, don't you think I should feel a little mean if I thought you were not trying your hardest to get it, simply because you didn't think it would be fair to try your hardest against a woman? That would cripple me. I should not feel as though I had the right to do anything. It's too important a matter for you to treat me like a child and let me win to avoid disappointing me. I want the money; but I don't want it handed to me." "Believe me," said Ashe earnestly, "it will not be handed to you. I have studied the Baxter question more deeply than you have, and I can assure you that Baxter is a menace. What has put him so firmly on the right scent I don't know; but he seems to have divined the exact state of affairs in its entirety--so far as I am concerned, that is to say. Of course he has no idea you are mixed up in the business; but I am afraid his suspicion of me will hit you as well. What I mean is that, for some time to come, I fancy that man proposes to camp out on the rug in front of the museum door. It would be madness for either of us to attempt to go there at present." "It is being made very hard for us, isn't it? And I thought it was going to be so simple." "I think we should give him at least a week to simmer down." "Fully that." "Let us look on the bright side. We are in no hurry. Blandings Castle is quite as comfortable as Number Seven Arundell Street, and the commissariat department is a revelation to me. I had no idea English servants did themselves so well. And, as for the social side, I love it; I revel in it. For the first time in my life I feel as though I am somebody. Did you observe my manner toward the kitchen maid who waited on us at dinner last night? A touch of the old noblesse about it, I fancy. Dignified but not unkind, I think. And I can keep it up. So far as I am concerned, let this life continue indefinitely." "But what about Mr. Peters? Don't you think there is danger he may change his mind about that five thousand dollars if we keep him waiting too long?" "Not a chance of it. Being almost within touch of the scarab has had the worst effect on him. It has intensified the craving. By the way, have you seen the scarab?" "Yes; I got Mrs. Twemlow to take me to the museum while you were talking to the butler. It was dreadful to feel that it was lying there in the open waiting for somebody to take it, and not be able to do anything." "I felt exactly the same. It isn't much to look at, is it? If it hadn't been for the label I wouldn't have believed it was the thing for which Peters was offering five thousand dollars' reward. But that's his affair. A thing is worth what somebody will give for it. Ours not to reason why; ours but to elude Baxter and gather it in." "Ours, indeed! You speak as though we were partners instead of rivals." Ashe uttered an exclamation. "You've hit it! Why not? Why any cutthroat competition? Why shouldn't we form a company? It would solve everything." Joan looked thoughtful. "You mean divide the reward?" "Exactly--into two equal parts." "And the labor?" "The labor?" "How shall we divide that?" Ashe hesitated. "My idea," he said, "was that I should do what I might call the rough work; and--" "You mean you should do the actual taking of the scarab?" "Exactly. I would look after that end of it." "And what would my duties be?" "Well, you--you would, as it were--how shall I put it? You would, so to speak, lend moral support." "By lying snugly in bed, fast asleep?" Ashe avoided her eye. "Well, yes--er--something on those lines." "While you ran all the risks?" "No, no. The risks are practically nonexistent." "I thought you said just now that it would be madness for either of us to attempt to go to the museum at present." Joan laughed. "It won't do, Mr. Marson. You remind me of an old cat I once had. Whenever he killed a mouse he would bring it into the drawing-room and lay it affectionately at my feet. I would reject the corpse with horror and turn him out, but back he would come with his loathsome gift. I simply couldn't make him understand that he was not doing me a kindness. He thought highly of his mouse and it was beyond him to realize that I did not want it. "You are just the same with your chivalry. It's very kind of you to keep offering me your dead mouse; but honestly I have no use for it. I won't take favors just because I happen to be a female. If we are going to form this partnership I insist on doing my fair share of the work and running my fair share of the risks--the practically nonexistent risks." "You're very--resolute." "Say pig-headed; I shan't mind. Certainly I am! A girl has got to be, even nowadays, if she wants to play fair. Listen, Mr. Marson; I will not have the dead mouse. I do not like dead mice. If you attempt to work off your dead mouse on me this partnership ceases before it has begun. If we are to work together we are going to make alternate attempts to get the scarab. No other arrangement will satisfy me." "Then I claim the right to make the first one." "You don't do anything of the sort. We toss up for first chance, like little ladies and gentlemen. Have you a coin? I will spin, and you call." Ashe made a last stand. "This is perfectly--" "Mr. Marson!" Ashe gave in. He produced a coin and handed it to her gloomily. "Under protest," he said. "Head or tail?" said Joan, unmoved. Ashe watched the coin gyrating in the sunshine. "Tail!" he cried. The coin stopped rolling. "Tail it is," said Joan. "What a nuisance! Well, never mind-- I'll get my chance if you fail." "I shan't fail," said Ashe fervently. "If I have to pull the museum down I won't fail. Thank heaven, there's no chance now of your doing anything foolish!" "Don't be too sure. Well, good luck, Mr. Marson!" "Thank you, partner." They shook hands. As they parted at the door, Joan made one further remark: "There's just one thing, Mr. Marson." "Yes?" "If I could have accepted the mouse from anyone I should certainly have accepted it from you." CHAPTER VII It is worthy of record, in the light of after events, that at the beginning of their visit it was the general opinion of the guests gathered together at Blandings Castle that the place was dull. The house party had that air of torpor which one sees in the saloon passengers of an Atlantic liner--that appearance of resignation to an enforced idleness and a monotony to be broken only by meals. Lord Emsworth's guests gave the impression, collectively, of being just about to yawn and look at their watches. This was partly the fault of the time of year, for most house parties are dull if they happen to fall between the hunting and the shooting seasons, but must be attributed chiefly to Lord Emsworth's extremely sketchy notions of the duties of a host. A host has no right to interne a regiment of his relations in his house unless he also invites lively and agreeable outsiders to meet them. If he does commit this solecism the least he can do is to work himself to the bone in the effort to invent amusements and diversions for his victims. Lord Emsworth had failed badly in both these matters. With the exception of Mr. Peters, his daughter Aline and George Emerson, there was nobody in the house who did not belong to the clan; and, as for his exerting himself to entertain, the company was lucky if it caught a glimpse of its host at meals. Lord Emsworth belonged to the people-who-like-to-be-left-alone- to-amuse-themselves-when-they-come-to-a-place school of hosts. He pottered about the garden in an old coat--now uprooting a weed, now wrangling with the autocrat from Scotland, who was theoretically in his service as head gardener---dreamily satisfied, when he thought of them at all, that his guests were as perfectly happy as he was. Apart from his son Freddie, whom he had long since dismissed as a youth of abnormal tastes, from whom nothing reasonable was to be expected, he could not imagine anyone not being content merely to be at Blandings when the buds were bursting on the trees. A resolute hostess might have saved the situation; but Lady Ann Warblington's abilities in that direction stopped short at leaving everything to Mrs. Twemlow and writing letters in her bedroom. When Lady Ann Warblington was not writing letters in her bedroom--which was seldom, for she had an apparently inexhaustible correspondence--she was nursing sick headaches in it. She was one of those hostesses whom a guest never sees except when he goes into the library and espies the tail of her skirt vanishing through the other door. As for the ordinary recreations of the country house, the guests could frequent the billiard room, where they were sure to find Lord Stockheath playing a hundred up with his cousin, Algernon Wooster--a spectacle of the liveliest interest--or they could, if fond of golf, console themselves for the absence of links in the neighborhood with the exhilarating pastime of clock golf; or they could stroll about the terraces with such of their relations as they happened to be on speaking terms with at the moment, and abuse their host and the rest of their relations. This was the favorite amusement; and after breakfast, on a morning ten days after Joan and Ashe had formed their compact, the terraces were full of perambulating couples. Here, Colonel Horace Mant, walking with the Bishop of Godalming, was soothing that dignitary by clothing in soldierly words thoughts that the latter had not been able to crush down, but which his holy office scarcely permitted him to utter. There, Lady Mildred Mant, linked to Mrs. Jack Hale, of the collateral branch of the family, was saying things about her father in his capacity of host and entertainer, that were making her companion feel like another woman. Farther on, stopping occasionally to gesticulate, could be seen other Emsworth relations and connections. It was a typical scene of quiet, peaceful English family life. Leaning on the broad stone balustrade of the upper terrace, Aline Peters and George Emerson surveyed the malcontents. Aline gave a little sigh, almost inaudible; but George's hearing was good. "I was wondering when you are going to admit it," he said, shifting his position so that he faced her. "Admit what?" "That you can't stand the prospect; that the idea of being stuck for life with this crowd, like a fly on fly paper, is too much for you; that you are ready to break off your engagement to Freddie and come away and marry me and live happily ever after." "George!" "Well, wasn't that what it meant? Be honest!" "What what meant?" "That sigh." "I didn't sigh. I was just breathing." "Then you can breathe in this atmosphere! You surprise me!" He raked the terraces with hostile eyes. "Look at them! Look at them--crawling round like doped beetles. My dear girl, it's no use your pretending that this sort of thing wouldn't kill you. You're pining away already. You're thinner and paler since you came here. Gee! How we shall look back at this and thank our stars that we're out of it when we're back in old New York, with the elevated rattling and the street cars squealing over the points, and something doing every step you take. I shall call you on the 'phone from the office and have you meet me down town somewhere, and we'll have a bite to eat and go to some show, and a bit of supper afterward and a dance or two; and then go home to our cozy---" "George, you mustn't--really!" "Why mustn't I?" "It's wrong. You can't talk like that when we are both enjoying the hospitality--" A wild laugh, almost a howl, disturbed the talk of the most adjacent of the perambulating relations. Colonel Horace Mant, checked in mid-sentence, looked up resentfully at the cause of the interruption. "I wish somebody would tell me whether it's that American fellow, Emerson, or young Freddie who's supposed to be engaged to Miss Peters. Hanged if you ever see her and Freddie together, but she and Emerson are never to be found apart. If my respected father-in-law had any sense I should have thought he would have had sense enough to stop that." "You forget, my dear Horace," said the bishop charitably; "Miss Peters and Mr. Emerson have known each other since they were children." "They were never nearly such children as Emsworth is now," snorted the colonel. "If that girl isn't in love with Emerson I'll be--I'll eat my hat." "No, no," said the bishop. "No, no! Surely not, Horace. What were you saying when you broke off?" "I was saying that if a man wanted his relations never to speak to each other again for the rest of their lives the best thing he could do would be to herd them all together in a dashed barrack of a house a hundred miles from anywhere, and then go off and spend all his time prodding dashed flower beds with a spud--dash it!" "Just so; just so. So you were. Go on, Horace; I find a curious comfort in your words." On the terrace above them Aline was looking at George with startled eyes. "George!" "I'm sorry; but you shouldn't spring these jokes on me so suddenly. You said enjoying! Yes--reveling in it, aren't we!" "It's a lovely old place," said Aline defensively. "And when you've said that you've said everything. You can't live on scenery and architecture for the rest of your life. There's the human element to be thought of. And you're beginning--" "There goes father," interrupted Aline. "How fast he is walking! George, have you noticed a sort of difference in father these last few days?" "I haven't. My specialty is keeping an eye on the rest of the Peters family." "He seems better somehow. He seems to have almost stopped smoking--and I'm very glad, for those cigars were awfully bad for him. The doctor expressly told him he must stop them, but he wouldn't pay any attention to him. And he seems to take so much more exercise. My bedroom is next to his, you know, and every morning I can hear things going on through the wall--father dancing about and puffing a good deal. And one morning I met his valet going in with a pair of Indian clubs. I believe father is really taking himself in hand at last." George Emerson exploded. "And about time, too! How much longer are you to go on starving yourself to death just to give him the resolution to stick to his dieting? It maddens me to see you at dinner. And it's killing you. You're getting pale and thin. You can't go on like this." A wistful look came over Aline's face. "I do get a little hungry sometimes--late at night generally." "You want somebody to take care of you and look after you. I'm the man. You may think you can fool me; but I can tell. You're weakening on this Freddie proposition. You're beginning to see that it won't do. One of these days you're going to come to me and say: 'George, you were right. I take the count. Me for the quiet sneak to the station, without anybody knowing, and the break for London, and the wedding at the registrar's.' Oh, I know! I couldn't have loved you all this time and not know. You're weakening." The trouble with these supermen is that they lack reticence. They do not know how to omit. They expand their chests and whoop. And a girl, even the mildest and sweetest of girls--even a girl like Aline Peters--cannot help resenting the note of triumph. But supermen despise tact. As far as one can gather, that is the chief difference between them and the ordinary man. A little frown appeared on Aline's forehead and she set her mouth mutinously. "I'm not weakening at all," she said, and her voice was--for her--quite acid. "You--you take too much for granted." George was contemplating the landscape with a conqueror's eye. "You are beginning to see that it is impossible--this Freddie foolishness." "It is not foolishness," said Aline pettishly, tears of annoyance in her eyes. "And I wish you wouldn't call him Freddie." "He asked me to. He asked me to!" Aline stamped her foot. "Well, never mind. Please don't do it." "Very well, little girl," said George softly. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you." The fact that it never even occurred to George Emerson he was being offensively patronizing shows the stern stuff of which these supermen are made. * * * The Efficient Baxter bicycled broodingly to Market Blandings for tobacco. He brooded for several reasons. He had just seen Aline Peters and George Emerson in confidential talk on the upper terrace, and that was one thing which exercised his mind, for he suspected George Emerson. He suspected him nebulously as a snake in the grass; as an influence working against the orderly progress of events concerning the marriage that had been arranged and would shortly take place between Miss Peters and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. It would be too much to say that he had any idea that George was putting in such hard and consistent work in his serpentine role; indeed if he could have overheard the conversation just recorded it is probable that Rupert Baxter would have had heart failure; but he had observed the intimacy between the two as he observed most things in his immediate neighborhood, and he disapproved of it. It was all very well to say that George Emerson had known Aline Peters since she was a child. If that was so, then in the opinion of the Efficient Baxter he had known her quite long enough and ought to start making the acquaintance of somebody else. He blamed the Honorable Freddie. If the Honorable Freddie had been a more ardent lover he would have spent his time with Aline, and George Emerson would have taken his proper place as one of the crowd at the back of the stage. But Freddie's view of the matter seemed to be that he had done all that could be expected of a chappie in getting engaged to the girl, and that now he might consider himself at liberty to drop her for a while. So Baxter, as he bicycled to Market Blandings for tobacco, brooded on Freddie, Aline Peters and George Emerson. He also brooded on Mr. Peters and Ashe Marson. Finally he brooded in a general way, because he had had very little sleep the past week. The spectacle of a young man doing his duty and enduring considerable discomforts while doing it is painful; but there is such uplift in it, it affords so excellent a moral picture, that I cannot omit a short description of the manner in which Rupert Baxter had spent the nights which had elapsed since his meeting with Ashe in the small hours in the hall. In the gallery which ran above the hall there was a large chair, situated a few paces from the great staircase. On this, in an overcoat--for the nights were chilly--and rubber-soled shoes, the Efficient Baxter had sat, without missing a single night, from one in the morning until daybreak, waiting, waiting, waiting. It had been an ordeal to try the stoutest determination. Nature had never intended Baxter for a night bird. He loved his bed. He knew that doctors held that insufficient sleep made a man pale and sallow, and he had always aimed at the peach-bloom complexion which comes from a sensible eight hours between the sheets. One of the King Georges of England--I forget which--once said that a certain number of hours' sleep each night--I cannot recall at the moment how many--made a man something, which for the time being has slipped my memory. Baxter agreed with him. It went against all his instincts to sit up in this fashion; but it was his duty and he did it. It troubled him that, as night after night went by and Ashe, the suspect, did not walk into the trap so carefully laid for him, he found an increasing difficulty in keeping awake. The first two or three of his series of vigils he had passed in an unimpeachable wakefulness, his chin resting on the rail of the gallery and his ears alert for the slightest sound; but he had not been able to maintain this standard of excellence. On several occasions he had caught himself in the act of dropping off, and the last night he had actually wakened with a start to find it quite light. As his last recollection before that was of an inky darkness impenetrable to the eye, dismay gripped him with a sudden clutch and he ran swiftly down to the museum. His relief on finding that the scarab was still there had been tempered by thoughts of what might have been. Baxter, then, as he bicycled to Market Blandings for tobacco, had good reason to brood. Having bought his tobacco and observed the life and thought of the town for half an hour--it was market day and the normal stagnation of the place was temporarily relieved and brightened by pigs that eluded their keepers, and a bull calf which caught a stout farmer at the psychological moment when he was tying his shoe lace and lifted him six feet--he made his way to the Emsworth Arms, the most respectable of the eleven inns the citizens of Market Blandings contrived in some miraculous way to support. In English country towns, if the public houses do not actually outnumber the inhabitants, they all do an excellent trade. It is only when they are two to one that hard times hit them and set the innkeepers to blaming the government. It was not the busy bar, full to overflowing with honest British yeomen--many of them in a similar condition--that Baxter sought. His goal was the genteel dining-room on the first floor, where a bald and shuffling waiter, own cousin to a tortoise, served luncheon to those desiring it. Lack of sleep had reduced Baxter to a condition where the presence and chatter of the house party were insupportable. It was his purpose to lunch at the Emsworth Arms and take a nap in an armchair afterward. He had relied on having the room to himself, for Market Blandings did not lunch to a great extent; but to his annoyance and disappointment the room was already occupied by a man in brown tweeds. Occupied is the correct word, for at first sight this man seemed to fill the room. Never since almost forgotten days when he used to frequent circuses and side shows, had Baxter seen a fellow human being so extraordinarily obese. He was a man about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve complexion, and his general appearance suggested joviality. To Baxter's chagrin, this person engaged him in conversation directly he took his seat at the table. There was only one table in the room, as is customary in English inns, and it had the disadvantage that it collected those seated at it into one party. It was impossible for Baxter to withdraw into himself and ignore this person's advances. It is doubtful whether he could have done it, however, had they been separated by yards of floor, for the fat man was not only naturally talkative but, as appeared from his opening remarks, speech had been dammed up within him for some time by lack of a suitable victim. "Morning!" he began; "nice day. Good for the farmers. I'll move up to your end of the table if I may, sir. Waiter, bring my beef to this gentleman's end of the table." He creaked into a chair at Baxter's side and resumed: "Infernally quiet place, this, sir. I haven't found a soul to speak to since I arrived yesterday afternoon except deaf-and-dumb rustics. Are you making a long stay here?" "I live outside the town." "I pity you. Wouldn't care to do it myself. Had to come here on business and shan't be sorry when it's finished. I give you my word I couldn't sleep a wink last night because of the quiet. I was just dropping off when a beast of a bird outside the window gave a chirrup, and it brought me up with a jerk as though somebody had fired a gun. There's a damned cat somewhere near my room that mews. I lie in bed waiting for the next mew, all worked up. "Heaven save me from the country! It may be all right for you, if you've got a comfortable home and a pal or two to chat with after dinner; but you've no conception what it's like in this infernal town--I suppose it calls itself a town. What a hole! There's a church down the street. I'm told it's Norman or something. Anyway, it's old. I'm not much of a man for churches as a rule, but I went and took a look at it. "Then somebody told me there was a fine view from the end of High Street; so I went and took a look at that. And now, so far as I can make out, I've done the sights and exhausted every possibility of entertainment the town has to provide--unless there's another church. I'm so reduced that I'll go and see the Methodist Chapel, if there is one." Fresh air, want of sleep and the closeness of the dining-room combined to make Baxter drowsy. He ate his lunch in a torpor, hardly replying to his companion's remarks, who, for his part, did not seem to wish or to expect replies. It was enough for him to be talking. "What do people do with themselves in a place like this? When they want amusement, I mean. I suppose it's different if you've been brought up to it. Like being born color-blind or something. You don't notice. It's the visitor who suffers. They've no enterprise in this sort of place. There's a bit of land just outside here that would make a sweet steeplechase course; natural barriers; everything. It hasn't occurred to 'em to do anything with it. It makes you despair of your species--that sort of thing. Now if I--" Baxter dozed. With his fork still impaling a piece of cold beef, he dropped into that half-awake, half-asleep state which is Nature's daytime substitute for the true slumber of the night. The fat man, either not noticing or not caring, talked on. His voice was a steady drone, lulling Baxter to rest. Suddenly there was a break. Baxter sat up, blinking. He had a curious impression that his companion had said "Hello, Freddie!" and that the door had just opened and closed. "Eh?" he said. "Yes?" said the fat man. "What did you say?" "I was speaking of--" "I thought you said, 'Hello, Freddie!'" His companion eyed him indulgently. "I thought you were dropping off when I looked at you. You've been dreaming. What should I say, 'Hello, Freddie!' for?" The conundrum was unanswerable. Baxter did not attempt to answer it. But there remained at the back of his mind a quaint idea that he had caught sight, as he woke, of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood, his face warningly contorted, vanishing through the doorway. Yet what could the Honorable Freddie be doing at the Emsworth Arms? A solution of the difficulty occurred to him: he had dreamed he had seen Freddie and that had suggested the words which, reason pointed out, his companion could hardly have spoken. Even if the Honorable Freddie should enter the room, this fat man, who was apparently a drummer of some kind, would certainly not know who he was, nor would he address him so familiarly. Yes, that must be the explanation. After all, the quaintest things happened in dreams. Last night, when he had fallen asleep in his chair, he had dreamed that he was sitting in a glass case in the museum, making faces at Lord Emsworth, Mr. Peters, and Beach, the butler, who were trying to steal him, under the impression that he was a scarab of the reign of Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty--a thing he would never have done when awake. Yes; he must certainly have been dreaming. In the bedroom into which he had dashed to hide himself, on discovering that the dining-room was in possession of the Efficient Baxter, the Honorable Freddie sat on a rickety chair, scowling. He elaborated a favorite dictum of his: "You can't take a step anywhere without stumbling over that damn feller, Baxter!" He wondered whether Baxter had seen him. He wondered whether Baxter had recognized him. He wondered whether Baxter had heard R. Jones say, "Hello, Freddie!" He wondered, if such should be the case, whether R. Jones' presence of mind and native resource had been equal to explaining away the remark. CHAPTER VIII "'Put the butter or drippings in a kettle on the range, and when hot add the onions and fry them; add the veal and cook until brown. Add the water, cover closely, and cook very slowly until the meat is tender; then add the seasoning and place the potatoes on top of the meat. Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender, but not falling to pieces.'" "Sure," said Mr. Peters--"not falling to pieces. That's right. Go on." "'Then add the cream and cook five minutes longer'" read Ashe. "Is that all?" "That's all of that one." Mr. Peters settled himself more comfortably in bed. "Read me the piece where it tells about curried lobster." Ashe cleared his throat. "'Curried Lobster,'" he read. "'Materials: Two one-pound lobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful curry powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one cupful scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful salt, quarter teaspoonful pepper.'" "Go on." "'Way of Preparing: Cream the butter and flour and add the scalded milk; then add the lemon juice, curry powder, salt and pepper. Remove the lobster meat from the shells and cut into half-inch cubes.'" "Half-inch cubes," sighed Mr. Peters wistfully. "Yes?" "'Add the latter to the sauce.'" "You didn't say anything about the latter. Oh, I see; it means the half-inch cubes. Yes?" "'Refill the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake until the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons.'" "And make them feel an hour afterward as though they had swallowed a live wild cat," said Mr. Peters ruefully. "Not necessarily," said Ashe. "I could eat two portions of that at this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a little child." Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him. They were in the millionaire's bedroom, the time being one in the morning, and Mr. Peters had expressed a wish that Ashe should read him to sleep. He had voted against Ashe's novel and produced from the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook. He explained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him he had derived a certain solace from its perusal. It may be that to some men sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things; but Mr. Peters had not found that to be the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of Hungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he, too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia. The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters. His was one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures. Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy. After the first passionate burst of resistance he had settled down into a model pupil in Ashe's one-man school of physical culture. It had been the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon's. Now that he remembered, he had come away from White Plains hoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically. It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let his patients loaf; but Mr. Peters, after the initial plunge, had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his cure then, because it was the job in hand. He worked hard now, under the guidance of Ashe, because, once he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him. Ashe, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved. Nature had really intended Ashe for a trainer; he identified himself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the least signs of improvement. In Mr. Peters' case there had been distinct improvement already. Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it was too much to expect one who had maltreated his body so consistently for so many years to become whole in a day; but to an optimist like Ashe signs were not wanting that in due season Mr. Peters would rise on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things, and though never soaring into the class that devours lobster a la Newburg and smiles after it, might yet prove himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops. "You're a wonder!" said Mr. Peters. "You're fresh, and you have no respect for your elders and betters; but you deliver the goods. That's the point. Why, I'm beginning to feel great! Say, do you know I felt a new muscle in the small of my back this morning? They are coming out on me like a rash." "That's the Larsen Exercises. They develop the whole body." "Well, you're a pretty good advertisement for them if they need one. What were you before you came to me--a prize-fighter?" "That's the question everybody I have met since I arrived here has asked me. I believe it made the butler think I was some sort of crook when I couldn't answer it. I used to write stories-- detective stories." "What you ought to be doing is running a place over here in England like Muldoon has back home. But you will be able to write one more story out of this business here, if you want to. When are you going to have another try for my scarab?" "To-night." "To-night? How about Baxter?" "I shall have to risk Baxter." Mr. Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of being magnanimous during the past few years, for dyspepsia brooks no divided allegiance and magnanimity has to take a back seat when it has its grip on you. "See here," he said awkwardly; "I've been thinking this over lately--and what's the use? It's a queer thing; and if anybody had told me a week ago that I should be saying it I wouldn't have believed him; but I am beginning to like you. I don't want to get you into trouble. Let the old scarab go. What's a scarab anyway? Forget about it and stick on here as my private Muldoon. If it's the five thousand that's worrying you, forget that too. I'll give it to you as your fee." Ashe was astounded. That it could really be his peppery employer who spoke was almost unbelievable. Ashe's was a friendly nature and he could never be long associated with anyone without trying to establish pleasant relations; but he had resigned himself in the present case to perpetual warfare. He was touched; and if he had ever contemplated abandoning his venture, this, he felt, would have spurred him on to see it through. This sudden revelation of the human in Mr. Peters was like a trumpet call. "I wouldn't think of it," he said. "It's great of you to suggest such a thing; but I know just how you feel about the thing, and I'm going to get it for you if I have to wring Baxter's neck. Probably Baxter will have given up waiting as a bad job by now if he has been watching all this while. We've given him ten nights to cool off. I expect he is in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams. It's nearly two o'clock. I'll wait another ten minutes and then go down." He picked up the cookbook. "Lie back and make yourself comfortable, and I'll read you to sleep first." "You're a good boy," said Mr. Peters drowsily. "Are you ready? 'Pork Tenderloin Larded. Half pound fat pork--'" A faint smile curved Mr. Peters' lips. His eyes were closed and he breathed softly. Ashe went on in a low voice: "'four large pork tenderloins, one cupful cracker crumbs, one cupful boiling water, two tablespoonfuls butter, one teaspoonful salt, half teaspoonful pepper, one teaspoonful poultry seasoning.'" A little sigh came from the bed. "'Way of Preparing: Wipe the tenderloins with a damp cloth. With a sharp knife make a deep pocket lengthwise in each tenderloin. Cut your pork into long thin strips and, with a needle, lard each tenderloin. Melt the butter in the water, add the seasoning and the cracker crumbs, combining all thoroughly. Now fill each pocket in the tenderloin with this stuffing. Place the tenderloins--'" A snore sounded from the pillows, punctuating the recital like a mark of exclamation. Ashe laid down the book and peered into the darkness beyond the rays of the bed lamp. His employer slept. Ashe switched off the light and crept to the door. Out in the passage he stopped and listened. All was still. He stole downstairs. * * * George Emerson sat in his bedroom in the bachelors' wing of the castle smoking a cigarette. A light of resolution was in his eyes. He glanced at the table beside his bed and at what was on that table, and the light of resolution flamed into a glare of fanatic determination. So might a medieval knight have looked on the eve of setting forth to rescue a maiden from a dragon. His cigarette burned down. He looked at his watch, put it back, and lit another cigarette. His aspect was the aspect of one waiting for the appointed hour. Smoking his second cigarette, he resumed his meditations. They had to do with Aline Peters. George Emerson was troubled about Aline Peters. Watching over her, as he did, with a lover's eye, he had perceived that about her which distressed him. On the terrace that morning she had been abrupt to him--what in a girl of less angelic disposition one might have called snappy. Yes, to be just, she had snapped at him. That meant something. It meant that Aline was not well. It meant what her pallor and tired eyes meant--that the life she was leading was doing her no good. Eleven nights had George dined at Blandings Castle, and on each of the eleven nights he had been distressed to see the manner in which Aline, declining the baked meats, had restricted herself to the miserable vegetable messes which were all that doctor's orders permitted to her suffering father. George's pity had its limits. His heart did not bleed for Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters' diet was his own affair. But that Aline should starve herself in this fashion, purely by way of moral support for her parent, was another matter. George was perhaps a shade material. Himself a robust young man and taking what might be called an outsize in meals, he attached perhaps too much importance to food as an adjunct to the perfect life. In his survey of Aline he took a line through his own requirements; and believing that eleven such dinners as he had seen Aline partake of would have killed him he decided that his loved one was on the point of starvation. No human being, he held, could exist on such Barmecide feasts. That Mr. Peters continued to do so did not occur to him as a flaw in his reasoning. He looked on Mr. Peters as a sort of machine. Successful business men often give that impression to the young. If George had been told that Mr. Peters went along on gasoline, like an automobile, he would not have been much surprised. But that Aline--his Aline--should have to deny herself the exercise of that mastication of rich meats which, together with the gift of speech, raises man above the beasts of the field---- That was what tortured George. He had devoted the day to thinking out a solution of the problem. Such was the overflowing goodness of Aline's heart that not even he could persuade her to withdraw her moral support from her father and devote herself to keeping up her strength as she should do. It was necessary to think of some other plan. And then a speech of hers had come back to him. She had said--poor child: "I do get a little hungry sometimes--late at night generally." The problem was solved. Food should be brought to her late at night. On the table by his bed was a stout sheet of packing paper. On this lay, like one of those pictures in still life that one sees on suburban parlor walls, a tongue, some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew and a small bottle of white wine. It is a pleasure, when one has been able hitherto to portray George's devotion only through the medium of his speeches, to produce these comestibles as Exhibit A, to show that he loved Aline with no common love; for it had not been an easy task to get them there. In a house of smaller dimensions he would have raided the larder without shame, but at Blandings Castle there was no saying where the larder might be. All he knew was that it lay somewhere beyond that green-baize door opening on the hall, past which he was wont to go on his way to bed. To prowl through the maze of the servants' quarters in search of it was impossible. The only thing to be done was to go to Market Blandings and buy the things. Fortune had helped him at the start by arranging that the Honorable Freddie, also, should be going to Market Blandings in the little runabout, which seated two. He had acquiesced in George's suggestion that he, George, should occupy the other seat, but with a certain lack of enthusiasm it seemed to George. He had not volunteered any reason as to why he was going to Market Blandings in the little runabout, and on arrival there had betrayed an unmistakable desire to get rid of George at the earliest opportunity. As this had suited George to perfection, he being desirous of getting rid of the Honorable Freddie at the earliest opportunity, he had not been inquisitive, and they had parted on the outskirts of the town without mutual confidences. George had then proceeded to the grocer's, and after that to another of the Market Blandings inns, not the Emsworth Arms, where he had bought the white wine. He did not believe in the local white wine, for he was a young man with a palate and mistrusted country cellars, but he assumed that, whatever its quality, it would cheer Aline in the small hours. He had then tramped the whole five miles back to the castle with his purchases. It was here that his real troubles began and the quality of his love was tested. The walk, to a heavily laden man, was bad enough; but it was as nothing compared with the ordeal of smuggling the cargo up to his bedroom. Superhuman though he was, George was alive to the delicacy of the situation. One cannot convey food and drink to one's room in a strange house without, if detected, seeming to cast a slur on the table of the host. It was as one who carries dispatches through an enemy's lines that George took cover, emerged from cover, dodged, ducked and ran; and the moment when he sank down on his bed, the door locked behind him, was one of the happiest of his life. The recollection of that ordeal made the one he proposed to embark on now seem slight in comparison. All he had to do was to go to Aline's room on the other side of the house, knock softly on the door until signs of wakefulness made themselves heard from within, and then dart away into the shadows whence he had come, and so back to bed. He gave Aline credit for the intelligence that would enable her, on finding a tongue, some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine on the mat, to know what to do with them--and perhaps to guess whose was the loving hand that had laid them there. The second clause, however, was not important, for he proposed to tell her whose was the hand next morning. Other people might hide their light under a bushel--not George Emerson. It only remained now to allow time to pass until the hour should be sufficiently advanced to insure safety for the expedition. He looked at his watch again. It was nearly two. By this time the house must be asleep. He gathered up the tongue, the bread, the knife, the fork, the salt, the corkscrew and the bottle of white wine, and left the room. All was still. He stole downstairs. * * * On his chair in the gallery that ran round the hall, swathed in an overcoat and wearing rubber-soled shoes, the Efficient Baxter sat and gazed into the darkness. He had lost the first fine careless rapture, as it were, which had helped him to endure these vigils, and a great weariness was on him. He found difficulty in keeping his eyes open, and when they were open the darkness seemed to press on them painfully. Take him for all in all, the Efficient Baxter had had about enough of it. Time stood still. Baxter's thoughts began to wander. He knew that this was fatal and exerted himself to drag them back. He tried to concentrate his mind on some one definite thing. He selected the scarab as a suitable object, but it played him false. He had hardly concentrated on the scarab before his mind was straying off to ancient Egypt, to Mr. Peters' dyspepsia, and on a dozen other branch lines of thought. He blamed the fat man at the inn for this. If the fat man had not thrust his presence and conversation on him he would have been able to enjoy a sound sleep in the afternoon, and would have come fresh to his nocturnal task. He began to muse on the fat man. And by a curious coincidence whom should he meet a few moments later but this same man! It happened in a somewhat singular manner, though it all seemed perfectly logical and consecutive to Baxter. He was climbing up the outer wall of Westminster Abbey in his pyjamas and a tall hat, when the fat man, suddenly thrusting his head out of a window which Baxter had not noticed until that moment, said, "Hello, Freddie!" Baxter was about to explain that his name was not Freddie when he found himself walking down Piccadilly with Ashe Marson. Ashe said to him: "Nobody loves me. Everybody steals my grapefruit!" And the pathos of it cut the Efficient Baxter like a knife. He was on the point of replying; when Ashe vanished and Baxter discovered that he was not in Piccadilly, as he had supposed, but in an aeroplane with Mr. Peters, hovering over the castle. Mr. Peters had a bomb in his hand, which he was fondling with loving care. He explained to Baxter that he had stolen it from the Earl of Emsworth's museum. "I did it with a slice of cold beef and a pickle," he explained; and Baxter found himself realizing that that was the only way. "Now watch me drop it," said Mr. Peters, closing one eye and taking aim at the castle. "I have to do this by the doctor's orders." He loosed the bomb and immediately Baxter was lying in bed watching it drop. He was frightened, but the idea of moving did not occur to him. The bomb fell very slowly, dipping and fluttering like a feather. It came closer and closer. Then it struck with a roar and a sheet of flame. Baxter woke to a sound of tumult and crashing. For a moment he hovered between dreaming and waking, and then sleep passed from him, and he was aware that something noisy and exciting was in progress in the hall below. * * * Coming down to first causes, the only reason why collisions of any kind occur is because two bodies defy Nature's law that a given spot on a given plane shall at a given moment of time be occupied by only one body. There was a certain spot near the foot of the great staircase which Ashe, coming downstairs from Mr. Peters' room, and George Emerson, coming up to Aline's room, had to pass on their respective routes. George reached it at one minute and three seconds after two a.m., moving silently but swiftly; and Ashe, also maintaining a good rate of speed, arrived there at one minute and four seconds after the hour, when he ceased to walk and began to fly, accompanied by George Emerson, now going down. His arms were round George's neck and George was clinging to his waist. In due season they reached the foot of the stairs and a small table, covered with occasional china and photographs in frames, which lay adjacent to the foot of the stairs. That--especially the occasional china--was what Baxter had heard. George Emerson thought it was a burglar. Ashe did not know what it was, but he knew he wanted to shake it off; so he insinuated a hand beneath George's chin and pushed upward. George, by this time parted forever from the tongue, the bread, the knife, the fork, the salt, the corkscrew and the bottle of white wine, and having both hands free for the work of the moment, held Ashe with the left and punched him in the ribs with the right. Ashe, removing his left arm from George's neck, brought it up as a reinforcement to his right, and used both as a means of throttling George. This led George, now permanently underneath, to grasp Ashe's ears firmly and twist them, relieving the pressure on his throat and causing Ashe to utter the first vocal sound of the evening, other than the explosive Ugh! that both had emitted at the instant of impact. Ashe dislodged George's hands from his ears and hit George in the ribs with his elbow. George kicked Ashe on the left ankle. Ashe rediscovered George's throat and began to squeeze it afresh; and a pleasant time was being had by all when the Efficient Baxter, whizzing down the stairs, tripped over Ashe's legs, shot forward and cannoned into another table, also covered with occasional china and photographs in frames. The hall at Blandings Castle was more an extra drawing-room than a hall; and, when not nursing a sick headache in her bedroom, Lady Ann Warblington would dispense afternoon tea there to her guests. Consequently it was dotted pretty freely with small tables. There were, indeed, no fewer than five more in various spots, waiting to be bumped into and smashed. The bumping into and smashing of small tables, however, is a task that calls for plenty of time, a leisured pursuit; and neither George nor Ashe, a third party having been added to their little affair, felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly. Ashe was strongly opposed to being discovered and called on to account for his presence there at that hour; and George, conscious of the tongue and its adjuncts now strewn about the hall, had a similar prejudice against the tedious explanations that detection must involve. As though by mutual consent each relaxed his grip. They stood panting for an instant; then, Ashe in the direction where he supposed the green-baize door of the servants' quarters to be, George to the staircase that led to his bedroom, they went away from that place. They had hardly done so when Baxter, having disassociated himself from the contents of the table he had upset, began to grope his way toward the electric-light switch, the same being situated near the foot of the main staircase. He went on all fours, as a safer method of locomotion, though slower, than the one he had attempted before. Noises began to make themselves heard on the floors above. Roused by the merry crackle of occasional china, the house party was bestirring itself to investigate. Voices sounded, muffled and inquiring. Meantime Baxter crawled steadily on his hands and knees toward the light switch. He was in much the same condition as one White Hope of the ring is after he has put his chin in the way of the fist of a rival member of the Truck Drivers' Union. He knew that he was still alive. More he could not say. The mists of sleep, which still shrouded his brain, and the shake-up he had had from his encounter with the table, a corner of which he had rammed with the top of his head, combined to produce a dreamlike state. And so the Efficient Baxter crawled on; and as he crawled his hand, advancing cautiously, fell on something--something that was not alive; something clammy and ice-cold, the touch of which filled him with a nameless horror. To say that Baxter's heart stood still would be physiologically inexact. The heart does not stand still. Whatever the emotions of its owner, it goes on beating. It would be more accurate to say that Baxter felt like a man taking his first ride in an express elevator, who has outstripped his vital organs by several floors and sees no immediate prospect of their ever catching up with him again. There was a great cold void where the more intimate parts of his body should have been. His throat was dry and contracted. The flesh of his back crawled, for he knew what it was he had touched. Painful and absorbing as had been his encounter with the table, Baxter had never lost sight of the fact that close beside him a furious battle between unseen forces was in progress. He had heard the bumping and the thumping and the tense breathing even as he picked occasional china from his person. Such a combat, he had felt, could hardly fail to result in personal injury to either the party of the first part or the party of the second part, or both. He knew now that worse than mere injury had happened, and that he knelt in the presence of death. There was no doubt that the man was dead. Insensibility alone could never have produced this icy chill. He raised his head in the darkness, and cried aloud to those approaching. He meant to cry: "Help! Murder!" But fear prevented clear articulation. What he shouted was: "Heh! Mer!" On which, from the neighborhood of the staircase, somebody began to fire a revolver. The Earl of Emsworth had been sleeping a sound and peaceful sleep when the imbroglio began downstairs. He sat up and listened. Yes; undoubtedly burglars! He switched on his light and jumped out of bed. He took a pistol from a drawer, and thus armed went to look into the matter. The dreamy peer was no poltroon. It was quite dark when he arrived on the scene of conflict, in the van of a mixed bevy of pyjamaed and dressing-gowned relations. He was in the van because, meeting these relations in the passage above, he had said to them: "Let me go first. I have a pistol." And they had let him go first. They were, indeed, awfully nice about it, not thrusting themselves forward or jostling or anything, but behaving in a modest and self-effacing manner that was pretty to watch. When Lord Emsworth said, "Let me go first," young Algernon Wooster, who was on the very point of leaping to the fore, said, "Yes, by Jove! Sound scheme, by Gad!"--and withdrew into the background; and the Bishop of Godalming said: "By all means, Clarence undoubtedly; most certainly precede us." When his sense of touch told him he had reached the foot of the stairs, Lord Emsworth paused. The hall was very dark and the burglars seemed temporarily to have suspended activities. And then one of them, a man with a ruffianly, grating voice, spoke. What it was he said Lord Emsworth could not understand. It sounded like "Heh! Mer!"--probably some secret signal to his confederates. Lord Emsworth raised his revolver and emptied it in the direction of the sound. Extremely fortunately for him, the Efficient Baxter had not changed his all-fours attitude. This undoubtedly saved Lord Emsworth the worry of engaging a new secretary. The shots sang above Baxter's head one after the other, six in all, and found other billets than his person. They disposed themselves as follows: The first shot broke a window and whistled out into the night; the second shot hit the dinner gong and made a perfectly extraordinary noise, like the Last Trump; the third, fourth and fifth shots embedded themselves in the wall; the sixth and final shot hit a life-size picture of his lordship's grandmother in the face and improved it out of all knowledge. One thinks no worse of Lord Emsworth's grandmother because she looked like Eddie Foy, and had allowed herself to be painted, after the heavy classic manner of some of the portraits of a hundred years ago, in the character of Venus--suitably draped, of course, rising from the sea; but it was beyond the possibility of denial that her grandson's bullet permanently removed one of Blandings Castle's most prominent eyesores. Having emptied his revolver, Lord Emsworth said, "Who is there? Speak!" in rather an aggrieved tone, as though he felt he had done his part in breaking the ice, and it was now for the intruder to exert himself and bear his share of the social amenities. The Efficient Baxter did not reply. Nothing in the world could have induced him to speak at that moment, or to make any sound whatsoever that might betray his position to a dangerous maniac who might at any instant reload his pistol and resume the fusillade. Explanations, in his opinion, could be deferred until somebody had the presence of mind to switch on the lights. He flattened himself on the carpet and hoped for better things. His cheek touched the corpse beside him; but though he winced and shuddered he made no outcry. After those six shots he was through with outcries. A voice from above, the bishop's voice, said: "I think you have killed him, Clarence." Another voice, that of Colonel Horace Mant, said: "Switch on those dashed lights! Why doesn't somebody? Dash it!" The whole strength of the company began to demand light. When the lights came, it was from the other side of the hall. Six revolver shots, fired at quarter past two in the morning, will rouse even sleeping domestics. The servants' quarters were buzzing like a hive. Shrill feminine screams were puncturing the air. Mr. Beach, the butler, in a suit of pink silk pajamas, of which no one would have suspected him, was leading a party of men servants down the stairs--not so much because he wanted to lead them as because they pushed him. The passage beyond the green-baize door became congested, and there were cries for Mr. Beach to open it and look through and see what was the matter; but Mr. Beach was smarter than that and wriggled back so that he no longer headed the procession. This done, he shouted: "Open that door there! Open that door! Look and see what the matter is." Ashe opened the door. Since his escape from the hall he had been lurking in the neighborhood of the green-baize door and had been engulfed by the swirling throng. Finding himself with elbowroom for the first time, he pushed through, swung the door open and switched on the lights. They shone on a collection of semi-dressed figures, crowding the staircase; on a hall littered with china and glass; on a dented dinner gong; on an edited and improved portrait of the late Countess of Emsworth; and on the Efficient Baxter, in an overcoat and rubber-soled shoes, lying beside a cold tongue. At no great distance lay a number of other objects--a knife, a fork, some bread, salt, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine. Using the word in the sense of saying something coherent, the Earl of Emsworth was the first to speak. He peered down at his recumbent secretary and said: "Baxter! My dear fellow--what the devil?" The feeling of the company was one of profound disappointment. They were disgusted at the anticlimax. For an instant, when the Efficient one did not move, a hope began to stir; but as soon as it was seen that he was not even injured, gloom reigned. One of two things would have satisfied them--either a burglar or a corpse. A burglar would have been welcome, dead or alive; but, if Baxter proposed to fill the part adequately it was imperative that he be dead. He had disappointed them deeply by turning out to be the object of their quest. That he should not have been even grazed was too much. There was a cold silence as he slowly raised himself from the floor. As his eyes fell on the tongue, he started and remained gazing fixedly at it. Surprise paralyzed him. Lord Emsworth was also looking at the tongue and he leaped to a not unreasonable conclusion. He spoke coldly and haughtily; for he was not only annoyed, like the others, at the anticlimax, but offended. He knew that he was not one of your energetic hosts who exert themselves unceasingly to supply their guests with entertainment; but there was one thing on which, as a host, he did pride himself--in the material matters of life he did his guests well; he kept an admirable table. "My dear Baxter," he said in the tones he usually reserved for the correction of his son Freddie, "if your hunger is so great that you are unable to wait for breakfast and have to raid my larder in the middle of the night, I wish to goodness you would contrive to make less noise about it. I do not grudge you the food--help yourself when you please--but do remember that people who have not such keen appetites as yourself like to sleep during the night. A far better plan, my dear fellow, would be to have sandwiches or buns--or whatever you consider most sustaining-- sent up to your bedroom." Not even the bullets had disordered Baxter's faculties so much as this monstrous accusation. Explanations pushed and jostled one another in his fermenting brain, but he could not utter them. On every side he met gravely reproachful eyes. George Emerson was looking at him in pained disgust. Ashe Marson's face was the face of one who could never have believed this had he not seen it with his own eyes. The scrutiny of the knife-and-shoe boy was unendurable. He stammered. Words began to proceed from him, tripping and stumbling over each other. Lord Emsworth's frigid disapproval did not relax. "Pray do not apologize, Baxter. The desire for food is human. It is your boisterous mode of securing and conveying it that I deprecate. Let us all go to bed." "But, Lord Emsworth-----" "To bed!" repeated his lordship firmly. The company began to stream moodily upstairs. The lights were switched off. The Efficient Baxter dragged himself away. From the darkness in the direction of the servants' door a voice spoke. "Greedy pig!" said the voice scornfully. It sounded like the fresh young voice of the knife-and-shoe boy, but Baxter was too broken to investigate. He continued his retreat without pausing. "Stuffin' of 'isself at all hours!" said the voice. There was a murmur of approval from the unseen throng of domestics. CHAPTER IX As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people. One must assume that the Efficient Baxter had not reached the age when this comes home to a man, for the fact that he had given genuine pleasure to some dozens of his fellow-men brought him no balm. There was no doubt about the pleasure he had given. Once they had got over their disappointment at finding that he was not a dead burglar, the house party rejoiced whole-heartedly at the break in the monotony of life at Blandings Castle. Relations who had not been on speaking terms for years forgot their quarrels and strolled about the grounds in perfect harmony, abusing Baxter. The general verdict was that he was insane. "Don't tell me that young fellow's all there," said Colonel Horace Mant; "because I know better. Have you noticed his eye? Furtive! Shifty! Nasty gleam in it. Besides--dash it!--did you happen to take a look at the hall last night after he had been there? It was in ruins, my dear sir--absolute dashed ruins. It was positively littered with broken china and tables that had been bowled over. Don't tell me that was just an accidental collision in the dark. "My dear sir, the man must have been thrashing about--absolutely thrashing about, like a dashed salmon on a dashed hook. He must have had a paroxysm of some kind--some kind of a dashed fit. A doctor could give you the name for it. It's a well-known form of insanity. Paranoia--isn't that what they call it? Rush of blood to the head, followed by a general running amuck. "I've heard fellows who have been in India talk of it. Natives get it. Don't know what they're doing, and charge through the streets taking cracks at people with dashed whacking great knives. Same with this young man, probably in a modified form at present. He ought to be in a home. One of these nights, if this grows on him, he will be massacring Emsworth in his bed." "My dear Horace!" The Bishop of Godalming's voice was properly horror-stricken; but there was a certain unctuous relish in it. "Take my word for it! Though, mind you, I don't say they aren't well suited. Everyone knows that Emsworth has been, to all practical intents and purposes, a dashed lunatic for years. What was it that young fellow Emerson, Freddie's American friend, was saying, the other day about some acquaintance of his who is not quite right in the head? Nobody in the house--is that it? Something to that effect, at any rate. I felt at the time it was a perfect description of Emsworth." "My dear Horace! Your father-in-law! The head of the family!" "A dashed lunatic, my dear sir--head of the family or no head of the family. A man as absent-minded as he is has no right to call himself sane. Nobody in the house--I recollect it now--nobody in the house except gas, and that has not been turned on. That's Emsworth!" The Efficient Baxter, who had just left his presence, was feeling much the same about his noble employer. After a sleepless night he had begun at an early hour to try and corner Lord Emsworth in order to explain to him the true inwardness of last night's happenings. Eventually he had tracked him to the museum, where he found him happily engaged in painting a cabinet of birds' eggs. He was seated on a small stool, a large pot of red paint on the floor beside him, dabbing at the cabinet with a dripping brush. He was absorbed and made no attempt whatever to follow his secretary's remarks. For ten minutes Baxter gave a vivid picture of his vigil and the manner in which it had been interrupted. "Just so; just so, my dear fellow," said the earl when he had finished. "I quite understand. All I say is, if you do require additional food in the night let one of the servants bring it to your room before bedtime; then there will be no danger of these disturbances. There is no possible objection to your eating a hundred meals a day, my good Baxter, provided you do not rouse the whole house over them. Some of us like to sleep during the night." "But, Lord Emsworth! I have just explained--It was not--I was not--" "Never mind, my dear fellow; never mind. Why make such an important thing of it? Many people like a light snack before actually retiring. Doctors, I believe, sometimes recommend it. Tell me, Baxter, how do you think the museum looks now? A little brighter? Better for the dash of color? I think so. Museums are generally such gloomy places." "Lord Emsworth, may I explain once again?" The earl looked annoyed. "My dear Baxter, I have told you that there is nothing to explain. You are getting a little tedious. What a deep, rich red this is, and how clean new paint smells! Do you know, Baxter, I have been longing to mess about with paint ever since I was a boy! I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick. . . . That would be before your time, of course. By the way, if you see Freddie, will you tell him I want to speak to him? He probably is in the smoking-room. Send him to me here." It was an overwrought Baxter who delivered the message to the Honorable Freddie, who, as predicted, was in the smoking-room, lounging in a deep armchair. There are times when life presses hard on a man, and it pressed hard on Baxter now. Fate had played him a sorry trick. It had put him in a position where he had to choose between two courses, each as disagreeable as the other. He must either face a possible second fiasco like that of last night, or else he must abandon his post and cease to mount guard over his threatened treasure. His imagination quailed at the thought of a repetition of last night's horrors. He had been badly shaken by his collision with the table and even more so by the events that had followed it. Those revolver shots still rang in his ears. It was probably the memory of those shots that turned the scale. It was unlikely he would again become entangled with a man bearing a tongue and the other things--he had given up in despair the attempt to unravel the mystery of the tongue; it completely baffled him--but it was by no means unlikely that if he spent another night in the gallery looking on the hall he might not again become a target for Lord Emsworth's irresponsible firearm. Nothing, in fact, was more likely; for in the disturbed state of the public mind the slightest sound after nightfall would be sufficient cause for a fusillade. He had actually overheard young Algernon Wooster telling Lord Stockheath he had a jolly good mind to sit on the stairs that night with a shotgun, because it was his opinion that there was a jolly sight more in this business than there seemed to be; and what he thought of the bally affair was that there was a gang of some kind at work, and that that feller--what's-his-name?--that feller Baxter was some sort of an accomplice. With these things in his mind Baxter decided to remain that night in the security of his bedroom. He had lost his nerve. He formed this decision with the utmost reluctance, for the thought of leaving the road to the museum clear for marauders was bitter in the extreme. If he could have overheard a conversation between Joan Valentine and Ashe Marson it is probable he would have risked Lord Emsworth's revolver and the shotgun of the Honorable Algernon Wooster. Ashe, when he met Joan and recounted the events of the night, at which Joan, who was a sound sleeper, had not been present, was inclined to blame himself as a failure. True, fate had been against him, but the fact remained that he had achieved nothing. Joan, however, was not of this opinion. "You have done wonders," she said. "You have cleared the way for me. That is my idea of real teamwork. I'm so glad now that we formed our partnership. It would have been too bad if I had got all the advantage of your work and had jumped in and deprived you of the reward. As it is, I shall go down and finish the thing off to-night with a clear conscience." "You can't mean that you dream of going down to the museum to-night!" "Of course I do." "But it's madness!" "On the contrary, to-night is the one night when there ought to be no risk at all." "After what happened last night?" "Because of what happened last night. Do you imagine Mr. Baxter will dare to stir from his bed after that? If ever there was a chance of getting this thing finished, it will be to-night." "You're quite right. I never looked at it in that way. Baxter wouldn't risk a second disaster. I'll certainly make a success of it this time." Joan raised her eyebrows. "I don't quite understand you, Mr. Marson. Do you propose to try to get the scarab to-night?" "Yes. It will be as easy as--" "Are you forgetting that, by the terms of our agreement, it is my turn?" "You surely don't intend to hold me to that?" "Certainly I do." "But, good heavens, consider my position! Do you seriously expect me to lie in bed while you do all the work, and then to take a half share in the reward?" "I do." "It's ridiculous!" "It's no more ridiculous than that I should do the same. Mr. Marson, there's no use in our going over all this again. We settled it long ago." Joan refused to discuss the matter further, leaving Ashe in a condition of anxious misery comparable only to that which, as night began to draw near, gnawed the vitals of the Efficient Baxter. * * * Breakfast at Blandings Castle was an informal meal. There was food and drink in the long dining-hall for such as were energetic enough to come down and get it; but the majority of the house party breakfasted in their rooms, Lord Emsworth, whom nothing in the world would have induced to begin the day in the company of a crowd of his relations, most of whom he disliked, setting them the example. When, therefore, Baxter, yielding to Nature after having remained awake until the early morning, fell asleep at nine o'clock, nobody came to rouse him. He did not ring his bell, so he was not disturbed; and he slept on until half past eleven, by which time, it being Sunday morning and the house party including one bishop and several of the minor clergy, most of the occupants of the place had gone off to church. Baxter shaved and dressed hastily, for he was in state of nervous apprehension. He blamed himself for having lain in bed so long. When every minute he was away might mean the loss of the scarab, he had passed several hours in dreamy sloth. He had wakened with a presentiment. Something told him the scarab had been stolen in the night, and he wished now that he had risked all and kept guard. The house was very quiet as he made his way rapidly to the hall. As he passed a window he perceived Lord Emsworth, in an un-Sabbatarian suit of tweeds and bearing a garden fork--which must have pained the bishop--bending earnestly over a flower bed; but he was the only occupant of the grounds, and indoors there was a feeling of emptiness. The hall had that Sunday-morning air of wanting to be left to itself, and disapproving of the entry of anything human until lunch time, which can be felt only by a guest in a large house who remains at home when his fellows have gone to church. The portraits on the walls, especially the one of the Countess of Emsworth in the character of Venus rising from the sea, stared at Baxter as he entered, with cold reproof. The very chairs seemed distant and unfriendly; but Baxter was in no mood to appreciate their attitude. His conscience slept. His mind was occupied, to the exclusion of all other things, by the scarab and its probable fate. How disastrously remiss it had been of him not to keep guard last night! Long before he opened the museum door he was feeling the absolute certainty that the worst had happened. It had. The card which announced that here was an Egyptian scarab of the reign of Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty, presented by J. Preston Peters, Esquire, still lay on the cabinet in its wonted place; but now its neat lettering was false and misleading. The scarab was gone. * * * For all that he had expected this, for all his premonition of disaster, it was an appreciable time before the Efficient Baxter rallied from the blow. He stood transfixed, goggling at the empty place. Then his mind resumed its functions. All, he perceived, was not yet lost. Baxter the watchdog must retire, to be succeeded by Baxter the sleuthhound. He had been unable to prevent the theft of the scarab, but he might still detect the thief. For the Doctor Watsons of this world, as opposed to the Sherlock Holmeses, success in the province of detective work must always be, to a very large extent, the result of luck. Sherlock Holmes can extract a clew from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar ash; but Doctor Watson has to have it taken out for him and dusted, and exhibited clearly, with a label attached. The average man is a Doctor Watson. We are wont to scoff in a patronizing manner at that humble follower of the great investigator; but as a matter of fact we should have been just as dull ourselves. We should not even have risen to the modest height of a Scotland Yard bungler. Baxter was a Doctor Watson. What he wanted was a clew; but it is so hard for the novice to tell what is a clew and what is not. And then he happened to look down--and there on the floor was a clew that nobody could have overlooked. Baxter saw it, but did not immediately recognize it for what it was. What he saw, at first, was not a clew, but just a mess. He had a tidy soul and abhorred messes, and this was a particularly messy mess. A considerable portion of the floor was a sea of red paint. The can from which it had flowed was lying on its side--near the wall. He had noticed that the smell of paint had seemed particularly pungent, but had attributed this to a new freshet of energy on the part of Lord Emsworth. He had not perceived that paint had been spilled. "Pah!" said Baxter. Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clew. A footmark! No less. A crimson footmark on the polished wood! It was as clear and distinct as though it had been left there for the purpose of assisting him. It was a feminine footmark, the print of a slim and pointed shoe. This perplexed Baxter. He had looked on the siege of the scarab as an exclusively male affair. But he was not perplexed long. What could be simpler than that Mr. Peters should have enlisted female aid? The female of the species is more deadly than the male. Probably she makes a better purloiner of scarabs. At any rate, there the footprint was, unmistakably feminine. Inspiration came to him. Aline Peters had a maid! What more likely than that secretly she should be a hireling of Mr. Peters, on whom he had now come to look as a man of the blackest and most sinister character? Mr. Peters was a collector; and when a collector makes up his mind to secure a treasure, he employs, Baxter knew, every possible means to that end. Baxter was now in a state of great excitement. He was hot on the scent and his brain was working like a buzz saw in an ice box. According to his reasoning, if Aline Peters' maid had done this thing there should be red paint in the hall marking her retreat, and possibly a faint stain on the stairs leading to the servants' bedrooms. He hastened from the museum and subjected the hall to a keen scrutiny. Yes; there was red paint on the carpet. He passed through the green-baize door and examined the stairs. On the bottom step there was a faint but conclusive stain of crimson! He was wondering how best to follow up this clew when he perceived Ashe coming down the stairs. Ashe, like Baxter, and as the result of a night disturbed by anxious thoughts, had also overslept himself. There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the trail causes the amateur--or Watsonian--detective to be incautious. If Baxter had been wise he would have achieved his object--the getting a glimpse of Joan's shoes--by a devious and snaky route. As it was, zeal getting the better of prudence, he rushed straight on. His early suspicion of Ashe had been temporarily obscured. Whatever Ashe's claims to be a suspect, it had not been his footprint Baxter had seen in the museum. "Here, you!" said the Efficient Baxter excitedly. "Sir?" "The shoes!" "I beg your pardon?" "I wish to see the servants' shoes. Where are they?" "I expect they have them on, sir." "Yesterday's shoes, man--yesterday's shoes. Where are they?" "Where are the shoes of yesteryear?" murmured Ashe. "I should say at a venture, sir, that they would be in a large basket somewhere near the kitchen. Our genial knife-and-shoe boy collects them, I believe, at early dawn." "Would they have been cleaned yet?" "If I know the lad, sir--no." "Go and bring that basket to me. Bring it to me in this room." * * * The room to which he referred was none other than the private sanctum of Mr. Beach, the butler, the door of which, standing open, showed it to be empty. It was not Baxter's plan, excited as he was, to risk being discovered sifting shoes in the middle of a passage in the servants' quarters. Ashe's brain was working rapidly as he made for the shoe cupboard, that little den of darkness and smells, where Billy, the knife-and-shoe boy, better known in the circle in which he moved as Young Bonehead, pursued his menial tasks. What exactly was at the back of the Efficient Baxter's mind prompting these maneuvers he did not know; but that there was something he was certain. He had not yet seen Joan this morning, and he did not know whether or not she had carried out her resolve of attempting to steal the scarab on the previous night; but this activity and mystery on the part of their enemy must have some sinister significance. He gathered up the shoe basket thoughtfully. He staggered back with it and dumped it down on the floor of Mr. Beach's room. The Efficient Baxter stooped eagerly over it. Ashe, leaning against the wall, straightened the creases in his clothes and flicked disgustedly at an inky spot which the journey had transferred from the basket to his coat. "We have here, sir," he said, "a fair selection of our various foot coverings." "You did not drop any on your way?" "Not one, sir." The Efficient Baxter uttered a grunt of satisfaction and bent once more to his task. Shoes flew about the room. Baxter knelt on the floor beside the basket, and dug like a terrier at a rat hole. At last he made a find and with an exclamation of triumph rose to his feet. In his hand he held a shoe. "Put those back," he said. Ashe began to pick up the scattered footgear. "That's the lot, sir," he said, rising. "Now come with me. Leave the basket there. You can carry it back when you return." "Shall I put back that shoe, sir?" "Certainly not. I shall take this one with me." "Shall I carry it for you, sir?" Baxter reflected. "Yes. I think that would be best." Trouble had shaken his nerve. He was not certain that there might not be others besides Lord Emsworth in the garden; and it occurred to him that, especially after his reputation for eccentric conduct had been so firmly established by his misfortunes that night in the hall, it might cause comment should he appear before them carrying a shoe. Ashe took the shoe and, doing so, understood what before had puzzled him. Across the toe was a broad splash of red paint. Though he had nothing else to go on, he saw all. The shoe he held was a female shoe. His own researches in the museum had made him aware of the presence there of red paint. It was not difficult to build up on these data a pretty accurate estimate of the position of affairs. "Come with me," said Baxter. He left the room. Ashe followed him. In the garden Lord Emsworth, garden fork in hand, was dealing summarily with a green young weed that had incautiously shown its head in the middle of a flower bed. He listened to Baxter's statement with more interest than he usually showed in anybody's statements. He resented the loss of the scarab, not so much on account of its intrinsic worth as because it had been the gift of his friend Mr. Peters. "Indeed!" he said, when Baxter had finished. "Really? Dear me! It certainly seems--It is extremely suggestive. You are certain there was red paint on this shoe?" "I have it with me. I brought it on purpose to show you." He looked at Ashe, who stood in close attendance. "The shoe!" Lord Emsworth polished his glasses and bent over the exhibit. "Ah!" he said. "Now let me look at--This, you say, is the--Just so; just so! Just--My dear Baxter, it may be that I have not examined this shoe with sufficient care, but--Can you point out to me exactly where this paint is that you speak of?" The Efficient Baxter stood staring at the shoe with wild, fixed stare. Of any suspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it was absolutely and entirely innocent! The shoe became the center of attraction, the center of all eyes. The Efficient Baxter fixed it with the piercing glare of one who feels that his brain is tottering. Lord Emsworth looked at it with a mildly puzzled expression. Ashe Marson examined it with a sort of affectionate interest, as though he were waiting for it to do a trick of some kind. Baxter was the first to break the silence. "There was paint on this shoe," he said vehemently. "I tell you there was a splash of red paint across the toe. This man here will bear me out in this. You saw paint on this shoe?" "Paint, sir?" "What! Do you mean to tell me you did not see it?" "No, sir; there was no paint on this shoe." "This is ridiculous. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a broad splash right across the toe." Lord Emsworth interposed. "You must have made a mistake, my dear Baxter. There is certainly no trace of paint on this shoe. These momentary optical delusions are, I fancy, not uncommon. Any doctor will tell you--" "I had an aunt, your lordship," said Ashe chattily, "who was remarkably subject--" "It is absurd! I cannot have been mistaken," said Baxter. "I am positively certain the toe of this shoe was red when I found it." "It is quite black now, my dear Baxter." "A sort of chameleon shoe," murmured Ashe. The goaded secretary turned on him. "What did you say?" "Nothing, sir." Baxter's old suspicion of this smooth young man came surging back to him. "I strongly suspect you of having had something to do with this." "Really, Baxter," said the earl, "that is surely the least probable of solutions. This young man could hardly have cleaned the shoe on his way from the house. A few days ago, when painting in the museum, I inadvertently splashed some paint on my own shoe. I can assure you it does not brush off. It needs a very systematic cleaning before all traces are removed." "Exactly, your lordship," said Ashe. "My theory, if I may--" "Yes?" "My theory, your lordship, is that Mr. Baxter was deceived by the light-and-shade effects on the toe of the shoe. The morning sun, streaming in through the window, must have shone on the shoe in such a manner as to give it a momentary and fictitious aspect of redness. If Mr. Baxter recollects, he did not look long at the shoe. The picture on the retina of the eye consequently had not time to fade. I myself remember thinking at the moment that the shoe appeared to have a certain reddish tint. The mistake--" "Bah!" said Baxter shortly. Lord Emsworth, now thoroughly bored with the whole affair and desiring nothing more than to be left alone with his weeds and his garden fork, put in his word. Baxter, he felt, was curiously irritating these days. He always seemed to be bobbing up. The Earl of Emsworth was conscious of a strong desire to be free from his secretary's company. He was efficient, yes--invaluable indeed--he did not know what he should do without Baxter; but there was no denying that his company tended after a while to become a trifle tedious. He took a fresh grip on his garden fork and shifted it about in the air as a hint that the interview had lasted long enough. "It seems to me, my dear fellow," he said, "the only explanation that will square with the facts. A shoe that is really smeared with red paint does not become black of itself in the course of a few minutes." "You are very right, your lordship," said Ashe approvingly. "May I go now, your lordship?" "Certainly--certainly; by all means." "Shall I take the shoe with me, your lordship?" "If you do not want it, Baxter." The secretary passed the fraudulent piece of evidence to Ashe without a word; and the latter, having included both gentlemen in a kindly smile, left the garden. On returning to the butler's room, Ashe's first act was to remove a shoe from the top of the pile in the basket. He was about to leave the room with it, when the sound of footsteps in the passage outside halted him. "I do not in the least understand why you wish me to come here, my dear Baxter," said a voice, "and you are completely spoiling my morning, but--" For a moment Ashe was at a loss. It was a crisis that called for swift action, and it was a little hard to know exactly what to do. It had been his intention to carry the paint-splashed shoe back to his own room, there to clean it at his leisure; but it appeared that his strategic line of retreat was blocked. Plainly, the possibility--nay, the certainty--that Ashe had substituted another shoe for the one with the incriminating splash of paint on it had occurred to the Efficient Baxter almost directly the former had left the garden. The window was open. Ashe looked out. There were bushes below. It was a makeshift policy, and one which did not commend itself to him as the ideal method, but it seemed the only thing to be done, for already the footsteps had reached the door. He threw the shoe out of window, and it sank beneath the friendly surface of the long grass round a wisteria bush. Ashe turned, relieved, and the next moment the door opened and Baxter walked in, accompanied--with obvious reluctance---by his bored employer. Baxter was brisk and peremptory. "I wish to look at those shoes again," he said coldly. "Certainly, sir," said Ashe. "I can manage without your assistance," said Baxter. "Very good, sir." Leaning against the wall, Ashe watched him with silent interest, as he burrowed among the contents of the basket, like a terrier digging for rats. The Earl of Emsworth took no notice of the proceedings. He yawned plaintively, and pottered about the room. He was one of Nature's potterers. The scrutiny of the man whom he had now placed definitely as a malefactor irritated Baxter. Ashe was looking at him in an insufferably tolerant manner, as if he were an indulgent father brooding over his infant son while engaged in some childish frolic. He lodged a protest. "Don't stand there staring at me!" "I was interested in what you were doing, sir." "Never mind! Don't stare at me in that idiotic way." "May I read a book, sir?" "Yes, read if you like." "Thank you, sir." Ashe took a volume from the butler's slenderly stocked shelf. The shoe-expert resumed his investigations in the basket. He went through it twice, but each time without success. After the second search he stood up and looked wildly about the room. He was as certain as he could be of anything that the missing piece of evidence was somewhere within those four walls. There was very little cover in the room, even for so small a fugitive as a shoe. He raised the tablecloth and peered beneath the table. "Are you looking for Mr. Beach, sir?" said Ashe. "I think he has gone to church." Baxter, pink with his exertions, fastened a baleful glance upon him. "You had better be careful," he said. At this point the Earl of Emsworth, having done all the pottering possible in the restricted area, yawned like an alligator. "Now, my dear Baxter--" he began querulously. Baxter was not listening. He was on the trail. He had caught sight of a small closet in the wall, next to the mantelpiece, and it had stimulated him. "What is in this closet?" "That closet, sir?" "Yes, this closet." He rapped the door irritably. "I could not say, sir. Mr. Beach, to whom the closet belongs, possibly keeps a few odd trifles there. A ball of string, perhaps. Maybe an old pipe or something of that kind. Probably nothing of value or interest." "Open it." "It appears to be locked, sir--" "Unlock it." "But where is the key?" Baxter thought for a moment. "Lord Emsworth," he said, "I have my reasons for thinking that this man is deliberately keeping the contents of this closet from me. I am convinced that the shoe is in there. Have I your leave to break open the door?" The earl looked a little dazed, as if he were unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. "Now, my dear Baxter," said the earl impatiently, "please tell me once again why you have brought me in here. I cannot make head or tail of what you have been saying. Apparently you accuse this young man of keeping his shoes in a closet. Why should you suspect him of keeping his shoes in a closet? And if he wishes to do so, why on earth should not he keep his shoes in a closet? This is a free country." "Exactly, your lordship," said Ashe approvingly. "You have touched the spot." "It all has to do with the theft of your scarab, Lord Emsworth. Somebody got into the museum and stole the scarab." "Ah, yes; ah, yes--so they did. I remember now. You told me. Bad business that, my dear Baxter. Mr. Peters gave me that scarab. He will be most deucedly annoyed if it's lost. Yes, indeed." "Whoever stole it upset the can of red paint and stepped in it." "Devilish careless of them. It must have made the dickens of a mess. Why don't people look where they are walking?" "I suspect this man of shielding the criminal by hiding her shoe in this closet." "Oh, it's not his own shoes that this young man keeps in closets?" "It is a woman's shoe, Lord Emsworth." "The deuce it is! Then it was a woman who stole the scarab? Is that the way you figure it out? Bless my soul, Baxter, one wonders what women are coming to nowadays. It's all this movement, I suppose. The Vote, and all that--eh? I recollect having a chat with the Marquis of Petersfield some time ago. He is in the Cabinet, and he tells me it is perfectly infernal the way these women carry on. He said sometimes it got to such a pitch, with them waving banners and presenting petitions, and throwing flour and things at a fellow, that if he saw his own mother coming toward him, with a hand behind her back, he would run like a rabbit. Told me so himself." "So," said the Efficient Baxter, cutting in on the flow of speech, "what I wish to do is to break open this closet." "Eh? Why?" "To get the shoe." "The shoe? . . . Ah, yes, I recollect now. You were telling me." "If your lordship has no objection." "Objection, my dear fellow? None in the world. Why should I have any objection? Let me see! What is it you wish to do?" "This," said Baxter shortly. He seized the poker from the fireplace and delivered two rapid blows on the closet door. The wood was splintered. A third blow smashed the flimsy lock. The closet, with any skeletons it might contain, was open for all to view. It contained a corkscrew, a box of matches, a paper-covered copy of a book entitled "Mary, the Beautiful Mill-Hand," a bottle of embrocation, a spool of cotton, two pencil-stubs, and other useful and entertaining objects. It contained, in fact, almost everything except a paint-splashed shoe, and Baxter gazed at the collection in dumb disappointment. "Are you satisfied now, my dear Baxter," said the earl, "or is there any more furniture that you would like to break? You know, this furniture breaking is becoming a positive craze with you, my dear fellow. You ought to fight against it. The night before last, I don't know how many tables broken in the hall; and now this closet. You will ruin me. No purse can stand the constant drain." Baxter did not reply. He was still trying to rally from the blow. A chance remark of Lord Emsworth's set him off on the trail once more. Lord Emsworth, having said his say, had dismissed the affair from his mind and begun to potter again. The course of his pottering had brought him to the fireplace, where a little pile of soot on the fender caught his eye. He bent down to inspect it. "Dear me!" he said. "I must remember to tell Beach to have his chimney swept. It seems to need it badly." No trumpet-call ever acted more instantaneously on old war-horse than this simple remark on the Efficient Baxter. He was still convinced that Ashe had hidden the shoe somewhere in the room, and, now that the closet had proved an alibi, the chimney was the only spot that remained unsearched. He dived forward with a rush, nearly knocking Lord Emsworth off his feet, and thrust an arm up into the unknown. The startled peer, having recovered his balance, met Ashe's respectfully pitying gaze. "We must humor him," said the gaze, more plainly than speech. Baxter continued to grope. The chimney was a roomy chimney, and needed careful examination. He wriggled his hand about clutchingly. From time to time soot fell in gentle showers. "My dear Baxter!" Baxter was baffled. He withdrew his hand from the chimney, and straightened himself. He brushed a bead of perspiration from his face with the back of his hand. Unfortunately, he used the sooty hand, and the result was too much for Lord Emsworth's politeness. He burst into a series of pleased chuckles. "Your face, my dear Baxter! Your face! It is positively covered with soot--positively! You must go and wash it. You are quite black. Really, my dear fellow, you present rather an extraordinary appearance. Run off to your room." Against this crowning blow the Efficient Baxter could not stand up. It was the end. "Soot!" he murmured weakly. "Soot!" "Your face is covered, my dear fellow--quite covered." "It certainly has a faintly sooty aspect, sir," said Ashe. His voice roused the sufferer to one last flicker of spirit. "You will hear more of this," he said. "You will--" At this moment, slightly muffled by the intervening door and passageway, there came from the direction of the hall a sound like the delivery of a ton of coal. A heavy body bumped down the stairs, and a voice which all three recognized as that of the Honorable Freddie uttered an oath that lost itself in a final crash and a musical splintering sound, which Baxter for one had no difficulty in recognizing as the dissolution of occasional china. Even if they had not so able a detective as Baxter with them, Lord Emsworth and Ashe would have been at no loss to guess what had happened. Doctor Watson himself could have deduced it from the evidence. The Honorable Freddie had fallen downstairs. * * * With a little ingenuity this portion of the story of Mr. Peters' scarab could be converted into an excellent tract, driving home the perils, even in this world, of absenting one's self from church on Sunday morning. If the Honorable Freddie had gone to church he would not have been running down the great staircase at the castle at this hour; and if he had not been running down the great staircase at the castle at that hour he would not have encountered Muriel. Muriel was a Persian cat belonging to Lady Ann Warblington. Lady Ann had breakfasted in bed and lain there late, as she rather fancied she had one of her sick headaches coming on. Muriel had left her room in the wake of the breakfast tray, being anxious to be present at the obsequies of a fried sole that had formed Lady Ann's simple morning meal, and had followed the maid who bore it until she had reached the hall. At this point the maid, who disliked Muriel, stopped and made a noise like an exploding pop bottle, at the same time taking a little run in Muriel's direction and kicking at her with a menacing foot. Muriel, wounded and startled, had turned in her tracks and sprinted back up the staircase at the exact moment when the Honorable Freddie, who for some reason was in a great hurry, ran lightly down. There was an instant when Freddie could have saved himself by planting a number-ten shoe on Muriel's spine, but even in that crisis he bethought him that he hardly stood solid enough with the authorities to risk adding to his misdeeds the slaughter of his aunt's favorite cat, and he executed a rapid swerve. The spared cat proceeded on her journey upstairs, while Freddie, touching the staircase at intervals, went on down. Having reached the bottom, he sat amid the occasional china, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and endeavored to ascertain the extent of his injuries. He had a dazed suspicion that he was irretrievably fractured in a dozen places. It was in this attitude that the rescue party found him. He gazed up at them with silent pathos. "In the name of goodness, Frederick," said Lord Emsworth peevishly, "what do you imagine you are doing?" Freddie endeavored to rise, but sank back again with a stifled howl. "It was that bally cat of Aunt Ann's," he said. "It came legging it up the stairs. I think I've broken my leg." "You have certainly broken everything else," said his father unsympathetically. "Between you and Baxter, I wonder there's a stick of furniture standing in the house." "Thanks, old chap," said Freddie gratefully as Ashe stepped forward and lent him an arm. "I think my bally ankle must have got twisted. I wish you would give me a hand up to my room." "And, Baxter, my dear fellow," said Lord Emsworth, "you might telephone to Doctor Bird, in Market Blandings, and ask him to be good enough to drive out. I am sorry, Freddie," he added, "that you should have met with this accident; but--but everything is so--so disturbing nowadays that I feel--I feel most disturbed." Ashe and the Honorable Freddie began to move across the hall--Freddie hopping, Ashe advancing with a sort of polka step. As they reached the stairs there was a sound of wheels outside and the vanguard of the house party, returned from church, entered the house. "It's all very well to give it out officially that Freddie has fallen downstairs and sprained his ankle," said Colonel Horace Mant, discussing the affair with the Bishop of Godalming later in the afternoon; "but it's my firm belief that that fellow Baxter did precisely as I said he would--ran amuck and inflicted dashed frightful injuries on young Freddie. When I got into the house there was Freddie being helped up the stairs, while Baxter, with his face covered with soot, was looking after him with a sort of evil grin. What had he smeared his face with soot for, I should like to know, if he were perfectly sane? "The whole thing is dashed fishy and mysterious and the sooner I can get Mildred safely out of the place, the better I shall be pleased. The fellow's as mad as a hatter!" CHAPTER X When Lord Emsworth, sighting Mr. Peters in the group of returned churchgoers, drew him aside and broke the news that the valuable scarab, so kindly presented by him to the castle museum, had been stolen in the night by some person unknown, he thought the millionaire took it exceedingly well. Though the stolen object no longer belonged to him, Mr. Peters no doubt still continued to take an affectionate interest in it and might have been excused had he shown annoyance that his gift had been so carelessly guarded. Mr. Peters was, however, thoroughly magnanimous about the matter. He deprecated the notion that the earl could possibly have prevented this unfortunate occurrence. He quite understood. He was not in the least hurt. Nobody could have foreseen such a calamity. These things happened and one had to accept them. He himself had once suffered in much the same way, the gem of his collection having been removed almost beneath his eyes in the smoothest possible fashion. Altogether, he relieved Lord Emsworth's mind very much; and when he had finished doing so he departed swiftly and rang for Ashe. When Ashe arrived he bubbled over with enthusiasm. He was lyrical in his praise. He went so far as to slap Ashe on the back. It was only when the latter disclaimed all credit for what had occurred that he checked the flow of approbation. "It wasn't you who got it? Who was it, then?" "It was Miss Peters' maid. It's a long story; but we were working in partnership. I tried for the thing and failed, and she succeeded." It was with mixed feelings that Ashe listened while Mr. Peters transferred his adjectives of commendation to Joan. He admired Joan's courage, he was relieved that her venture had ended without disaster, and he knew that she deserved whatever anyone could find to say in praise of her enterprise: but, at first, though he tried to crush it down, he could not help feeling a certain amount of chagrin that a girl should have succeeded where he, though having the advantage of first chance, had failed. The terms of his partnership with Joan had jarred on him from the beginning. A man may be in sympathy with the modern movement for the emancipation of woman and yet feel aggrieved when a mere girl proves herself a more efficient thief than himself. Woman is invading man's sphere more successfully every day; but there are still certain fields in which man may consider that he is rightfully entitled to a monopoly--and the purloining of scarabs in the watches of the night is surely one of them. Joan, in Ashe's opinion, should have played a meeker and less active part. These unworthy emotions did not last long. Whatever his other shortcomings, Ashe possessed a just mind. By the time he had found Joan, after Mr. Peters had said his say, and dispatched him below stairs for that purpose, he had purged himself of petty regrets and was prepared to congratulate her whole-heartedly. He was, however, resolved that nothing should induce him to share in the reward. On that point, he resolved, he would refuse to be shaken. "I have just left Mr. Peters," he began. "All is well. His check book lies before him on the table and he is trying to make his fountain pen work long enough to write a check. But there is just one thing I want to say--" She interrupted him. To his surprise, she was eyeing him coldly and with disapproval. "And there is just one thing I want to say," she said; "and that is, if you imagine I shall consent to accept a penny of the reward--" "Exactly what I was going to say. Of course I couldn't dream of taking any of it." "I don't understand you. You are certainly going to have it all. I told you when we made our agreement that I should only take my share if you let me do my share of the work. Now that you have broken that agreement, nothing could induce me to take it. I know you meant it kindly, Mr. Marson, but I simply can't feel grateful. I told you that ours was a business contract and that I wouldn't have any chivalry; and I thought that after you had given me your promise--" "One moment," said Ashe, bewildered. "I can't follow this. What do you mean?" "What do I mean? Why, that you went down to the museum last night before me and took the scarab, though you had promised to stay away and give me my chance." "But I didn't do anything of the sort." It was Joan's turn to look bewildered. "But you have got the scarab, Mr. Marson?" "Why, you have got it!" "No!" "But--but it has gone!" "I know. I went down to the museum last night, as we had arranged; and when I got there there was no scarab. It had disappeared." They looked at each other in consternation. Ashe was the first to speak. "It was gone when you got to the museum?" "There wasn't a trace of it. I took it for granted that you had been down before me. I was furious!" "But this is ridiculous!" said Ashe. "Who can have taken it? There was nobody beside ourselves who knew Mr. Peters was offering the reward. What exactly happened last night?" "I waited until one o'clock. Then I slipped down, got into the museum, struck a match, and looked for the scarab. It wasn't there. I couldn't believe it at first. I struck some more matches--quite a number--but it was no good. The scarab was gone; so I went back to bed and thought hard thoughts about you. It was silly of me. I ought to have known you would not break your word; but there didn't seem any other solution of the thing's disappearance. "Well, somebody must have taken it; and the question is, what are we to do?" She laughed. "It seems to me that we were a little premature in quarreling about how we are to divide that reward. It looks as though there wasn't going to be any reward." "Meantime," said Ashe gloomily, "I suppose I have got to go back and tell Peters. I expect it will break his heart." CHAPTER XI Blandings Castle dozed in the calm of an English Sunday afternoon. All was peace. Freddie was in bed, with orders from the doctor to stay there until further notice. Baxter had washed his face. Lord Emsworth had returned to his garden fork. The rest of the house party strolled about the grounds or sat in them, for the day was one of those late spring days that are warm with a premature suggestion of midsummer. Aline Peters was sitting at the open window of her bedroom, which commanded an extensive view of the terraces. A pile of letters lay on the table beside her, for she had just finished reading her mail. The postman came late to the castle on Sundays and she had not been able to do this until luncheon was over. Aline was puzzled. She was conscious of a fit of depression for which she could in no way account. She had a feeling that all was not well with the world, which was the more remarkable in that she was usually keenly susceptible to weather conditions and reveled in sunshine like a kitten. Yet here was a day nearly as fine as an American day--and she found no solace in it. She looked down on the terrace; as she looked the figure of George Emerson appeared, walking swiftly. And at the sight of him something seemed to tell her that she had found the key to her gloom. There are many kinds of walk. George Emerson's was the walk of mental unrest. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes stared straight in front of him from beneath lowering brows, and between his teeth was an unlighted cigar. No man who is not a professional politician holds an unlighted cigar in his mouth unless he wishes to irritate and baffle a ticket chopper in the subway, or because unpleasant meditations have caused him to forget he has it there. Plainly, then, all was not well with George Emerson. Aline had suspected as much at luncheon; and looking back she realized that it was at luncheon her depression had begun. The discovery startled her a little. She had not been aware, or she had refused to admit to herself, that George's troubles bulked so large on her horizon. She had always told herself that she liked George, that George was a dear old friend, that George amused and stimulated her; but she would have denied she was so wrapped up in George that the sight of him in trouble would be enough to spoil for her the finest day she had seen since she left America. There was something not only startling but shocking in the thought; for she was honest enough with herself to recognize that Freddie, her official loved one, might have paced the grounds of the castle chewing an unlighted cigar by the hour without stirring any emotion in her at all. And she was to marry Freddie next month! This was surely a matter that called for thought. She proceeded, gazing down the while at the perambulating George, to give it thought. Aline's was not a deep nature. She had never pretended to herself that she loved the Honorable Freddie in the sense in which the word is used in books. She liked him and she liked the idea of being connected with the peerage; her father liked the idea and she liked her father. And the combination of these likings had caused her to reply "Yes" when, last Autumn, Freddie, swelling himself out like an embarrassed frog and gulping, had uttered that memorable speech beginning, "I say, you know, it's like this, don't you know!"--and ending, "What I mean is, will you marry me--what?" She had looked forward to being placidly happy as the Honorable Mrs. Frederick Threepwood. And then George Emerson had reappeared in her life, a disturbing element. Until to-day she would have resented the suggestion that she was in love with George. She liked to be with him, partly because he was so easy to talk to, and partly because it was exciting to be continually resisting the will power he made no secret of trying to exercise. But to-day there was a difference. She had suspected it at luncheon and she realized it now. As she looked down at him from behind the curtain, and marked his air of gloom, she could no longer disguise it from herself. She felt maternal--horribly maternal. George was in trouble and she wanted to comfort him. Freddie, too, was in trouble. But did she want to comfort Freddie? No. On the contrary, she was already regretting her promise, so lightly given before luncheon, to go and sit with him that afternoon. A well-marked feeling of annoyance that he should have been so silly as to tumble downstairs and sprain his ankle was her chief sentiment respecting Freddie. George Emerson continued to perambulate and Aline continued to watch him. At last she could endure it no longer. She gathered up her letters, stacked them in a corner of the dressing-table and left the room. George had reached the end of the terrace and turned when she began to descend the stone steps outside the front door. He quickened his pace as he caught sight of her. He halted before her and surveyed her morosely. "I have been looking for you," he said. "And here I am. Cheer up, George! Whatever is the matter? I've been sitting in my room looking at you, and you have been simply prowling. What has gone wrong?" "Everything!" "How do you mean--everything?" "Exactly what I say. I'm done for. Read this." Aline took the yellow slip of paper. "A cable," added George. "I got it this morning--mailed on from my rooms in London. Read it." "I'm trying to. It doesn't seem to make sense." George laughed grimly. "It makes sense all right." "I don't see how you can say that. 'Meredith elephant kangaroo--?'" "Office cipher; I was forgetting. 'Elephant' means 'Seriously ill and unable to attend to duty.' Meredith is one of the partners in my firm in New York." "Oh, I'm so sorry! Do you think he is very sick? Are you very fond of Mr. Meredith?" "Meredith is a good fellow and I like him; but if it was simply a matter of his being ill I'm afraid I could manage to bear up under the news. Unfortunately 'kangaroo' means 'Return, without fail, by the next boat.'" "You must return by the next boat?" Aline looked at him, in her eyes a slow-growing comprehension of the situation. "Oh!" she said at length. "I put it stronger than that," said George. "But--the next boat---- That means on Wednesday." "Wednesday morning, from Southampton. I shall have to leave here to-morrow." Aline's eyes were fixed on the blue hills across the valley, but she did not see them. There was a mist between. She was feeling crushed and ill-treated and lonely. It was as though George was already gone and she left alone in an alien land. "But, George!" she said; she could find no other words for her protest against the inevitable. "It's bad luck," said Emerson quietly; "but I shouldn't wonder if it is not the best thing that really could have happened. It finishes me cleanly, instead of letting me drag on and make both of us miserable. If this cable hadn't come I suppose I should have gone on bothering you up to the day of your wedding. I should have fancied, to the last moment, that there was a chance for me; but this ends me with one punch. "Even I haven't the nerve to imagine that I can work a miracle in the few hours before the train leaves to-morrow. I must just make the best of it. If we ever meet again--and I don't see why we should--you will be married. My particular brand of mental suggestion doesn't work at long range. I shan't hope to influence you by telepathy." He leaned on the balustrade at her side and spoke in a low, level voice. "This thing," he said, "coming as a shock, coming out of the blue sky without warning--Meredith is the last man in the world you would expect to crack up; he looked as fit as a dray horse the last time I saw him--somehow seems to have hammered a certain amount of sense into me. Odd it never struck me before; but I suppose I have been about the most bumptious, conceited fool that ever happened. "Why I should have imagined that there was a sort of irresistible fascination in me, which was bound to make you break off your engagement and upset the whole universe simply to win the wonderful reward of marrying me, is more than I can understand. I suppose it takes a shock to make a fellow see exactly what he really amounts to. I couldn't think any more of you than I do; but, if I could, the way you have put up with my mouthing and swaggering and posing as a sort of superman, would make me do it. You have been wonderful!" Aline could not speak. She felt as though her whole world had been turned upside down in the last quarter of an hour. This was a new George Emerson, a George at whom it was impossible to laugh, but an insidiously attractive George. Her heart beat quickly. Her mind was not clear; but dimly she realized that he had pulled down her chief barrier of defense and that she was more open to attack than she had ever been. Obstinacy, the automatic desire to resist the pressure of a will that attempted to overcome her own, had kept her cool and level-headed in the past. With masterfulness she had been able to cope. Humility was another thing altogether. Soft-heartedness was Aline's weakness. She had never clearly recognized it, but it had been partly pity that had induced her to accept Freddie; he had seemed so downtrodden and sorry for himself during those Autumn days when they had first met. Prudence warned her that strange things might happen if once she allowed herself to pity George Emerson. The silence lengthened. Aline could find nothing to say. In her present mood there was danger in speech. "We have known each other so long," said Emerson, "and I have told you so often that I love you, we have come to make almost a joke of it, as though we were playing some game. It just happens that that is our way--to laugh at things; but I am going to say it once again, even though it has come to be a sort of catch phrase. I love you! I'm reconciled to the fact that I am done for, out of the running, and that you are going to marry somebody else; but I am not going to stop loving you. "It isn't a question of whether I should be happier if I forgot you. I can't do it. It's just an impossibility--and that's all there is to it. Whatever I may be to you, you are part of me, and you always will be part of me. I might just as well try to go on living without breathing as living without loving you." He stopped and straightened himself. "That's all! I don't want to spoil a perfectly good Spring afternoon for you by pulling out the tragic stop. I had to say all that; but it's the last time. It shan't occur again. There will be no tragedy when I step into the train to-morrow. Is there any chance that you might come and see me off?" Aline nodded. "You will? That will be splendid! Now I'll go and pack and break it to my host that I must leave him. I expect, it will be news to him to learn that I am here. I doubt if he knows me by sight." Aline stood where he had left her, leaning on the balustrade. In the fullness of time there came to her the recollection she had promised Freddie that shortly after luncheon she would sit with him. * * * The Honorable Freddie, draped in purple pyjamas and propped up with many pillows, was lying in bed, reading Gridley Quayle, Investigator. Aline's entrance occurred at a peculiarly poignant moment in the story and gave him a feeling of having been brought violently to earth from a flight in the clouds. It is not often an author has the good fortune to grip a reader as the author of Gridley Quayle gripped Freddie. One of the results of his absorbed mood was that he greeted Aline with a stare of an even glassier quality than usual. His eyes were by nature a trifle prominent; and to Aline, in the overstrung condition in which her talk with George Emerson had left her, they seemed to bulge at her like a snail's. A man seldom looks his best in bed, and to Aline, seeing him for the first time at this disadvantage, the Honorable Freddie seemed quite repulsive. It was with a feeling of positive panic that she wondered whether he would want her to kiss him. Freddie made no such demand. He was not one of your demonstrative lovers. He contented himself with rolling over in bed and dropping his lower jaw. "Hello, Aline!" Aline sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, Freddie?" Her betrothed improved his appearance a little by hitching up his jaw. As though feeling that would be too extreme a measure, he did not close his mouth altogether; but he diminished the abyss. The Honorable Freddie belonged to the class of persons who move through life with their mouths always restfully open. It seemed to Aline that on this particular afternoon a strange dumbness had descended on her. She had been unable to speak to George and now she could not think of anything to say to Freddie. She looked at him and he looked at her; and the clock on the mantel-piece went on ticking. "It was that bally cat of Aunt Ann's," said Freddie at length, essaying light conversation. "It came legging it up the stairs and I took the most frightful toss. I hate cats! Do you hate cats? I knew a fellow in London who couldn't stand cats." Aline began to wonder whether there was not something permanently wrong with her organs of speech. It should have been a simple matter to develop the cat theme, but she found herself unable to do so. Her mind was concentrated, to the exclusion of all else, on the repellent nature of the spectacle provided by her loved one in pyjamas. Freddie resumed the conversation. "I was just reading a corking book. Have you ever read these things? They come out every month, and they're corking. The fellow who writes them must be a corker. It beats me how he thinks of these things. They are about a detective--a chap called Gridley Quayle. Frightfully exciting!" An obvious remedy for dumbness struck Aline. "Shall I read to you, Freddie?" "Right-ho! Good scheme! I've got to the top of this page." Aline took the paper-covered book. "'Seven guns covered him with deadly precision.' Did you get as far as that?" "Yes; just beyond. It's a bit thick, don't you know! This chappie Quayle has been trapped in a lonely house, thinking he was going to see a pal in distress; and instead of the pal there pop out a whole squad of masked blighters with guns. I don't see how he's going to get out of it, myself; but I'll bet he does. He's a corker!" If anybody could have pitied Aline more than she pitied herself, as she waded through the adventures of Mr. Quayle, it would have been Ashe Marson. He had writhed as he wrote the words and she writhed as she read them. The Honorable Freddie also writhed, but with tense excitement. "What's the matter? Don't stop!" he cried as Aline's voice ceased. "I'm getting hoarse, Freddie." Freddie hesitated. The desire to remain on the trail with Gridley struggled with rudimentary politeness. "How would it be--Would you mind if I just took a look at the rest of it myself? We could talk afterward, you know. I shan't be long." "Of course! Do read if you want to. But do you really like this sort of thing, Freddie?" "Me? Rather! Why--don't you?" "I don't know. It seems a little--I don't know." Freddie had become absorbed in his story. Aline did not attempt further analysis of her attitude toward Mr. Quayle; she relapsed into silence. It was a silence pregnant with thought. For the first time in their relations, she was trying to visualize to herself exactly what marriage with this young man would mean. Hitherto, it struck her, she had really seen so little of Freddie that she had scarcely had a chance of examining him. In the crowded world outside he had always seemed a tolerable enough person. To-day, somehow, he was different. Everything was different to-day. This, she took it, was a fair sample of what she might expect after marriage. Marriage meant--to come to essentials--that two people were very often and for lengthy periods alone together, dependent on each other for mutual entertainment. What exactly would it be like, being alone often and for lengthy periods with Freddie? Well, it would, she assumed, be like this. "It's all right," said Freddie without looking up. "He did get out! He had a bomb on him, and he threatened to drop it and blow the place to pieces unless the blighters let him go. So they cheesed it. I knew he had something up his sleeve." Like this! Aline drew a deep breath. It would be like this--forever and ever and ever--until she died. She bent forward and stared at him. "Freddie," she said, "do you love me?" There was no reply. "Freddie, do you love me? Am I a part of you? If you hadn't me would it be like trying to go on living without breathing?" The Honorable Freddie raised a flushed face and gazed at her with an absent eye. "Eh? What?" he said. "Do I--Oh; yes, rather! I say, one of the blighters has just loosed a rattlesnake into Gridley Quayle's bedroom through the transom!" Aline rose from her seat and left the room softly. The Honorable Freddie read on, unheeding. * * * Ashe Marson had not fallen far short of the truth in his estimate of the probable effect on Mr. Peters of the information that his precious scarab had once more been removed by alien hands and was now farther from his grasp than ever. A drawback to success in life is that failure, when it does come, acquires an exaggerated importance. Success had made Mr. Peters, in certain aspects of his character, a spoiled child. At the moment when Ashe broke the news he would have parted with half his fortune to recover the scarab. Its recovery had become a point of honor. He saw it as the prize of a contest between his will and that of whatever malignant powers there might be ranged against him in the effort to show him that there were limits to what he could achieve. He felt as he had felt in the old days when people sneaked up on him in Wall Street and tried to loosen his grip on a railroad or a pet stock. He was suffering from that form of paranoia which makes men multimillionaires. Nobody would be foolish enough to become a multimillionaire if it were not for the desire to prove himself irresistible. Mr. Peters obtained a small relief for his feelings by doubling the existing reward, and Ashe went off in search of Joan, hoping that this new stimulus, acting on their joint brains, might develop inspiration. "Have any fresh ideas been vouchsafed to you?" he asked. "You may look on me as baffled." Joan shook her head. "Don't give up," she urged. "Think again. Try to realize what this means, Mr. Marson. Between us we have lost ten thousand dollars in a single night. I can't afford it. It is like losing a legacy. I absolutely refuse to give in without an effort and go back to writing duke-and-earl stories for Home Gossip." "The prospect of tackling Gridley Quayle again--" "Why, I was forgetting that you were a writer of detective stories. You ought to be able to solve this mystery in a moment. Ask yourself, 'What would Gridley Quayle have done?'" "I can answer that. Gridley Quayle would have waited helplessly for some coincidence to happen to help him out." "Had he no methods?" "He was full of methods; but they never led him anywhere without the coincidence. However, we might try to figure it out. What time did you get to the museum?" "One o'clock." "And you found the scarab gone. What does that suggest to you?" "Nothing. What does it suggest to you?" "Absolutely nothing. Let us try again. Whoever took the scarab must have had special information that Peters was offering the reward." "Then why hasn't he been to Mr. Peters and claimed it?" "True! That would seem to be a flaw in the reasoning. Once again: Whoever took it must have been in urgent and immediate need of money." "And how are we to find out who was in urgent and immediate need of money?" "Exactly! How indeed?" There was a pause. "I should think your Mr. Quayle must have been a great comfort to his clients, wasn't he?" said Joan. "Inductive reasoning, I admit, seems to have fallen down to a certain extent," said Ashe. "We must wait for the coincidence. I have a feeling that it will come." He paused. "I am very fortunate in the way of coincidences." "Are you?" Ashe looked about him and was relieved to find that they appeared to be out of earshot of their species. It was not easy to achieve this position at the castle if you happened to be there as a domestic servant. The space provided for the ladies and gentlemen attached to the guests was limited, and it was rarely that you could enjoy a stroll without bumping into a maid, a valet or a footman; but now they appeared to be alone. The drive leading to the back regions of the castle was empty. As far as the eye could reach there were no signs of servants--upper or lower. Nevertheless, Ashe lowered his voice. "Was it not a strange coincidence," he said, "that you should have come into my life at all?" "Not very," said Joan prosaically. "It was quite likely that we should meet sooner or later, as we lived on different floors of the same house." "It was a coincidence that you should have taken that room." "Why?" Ashe felt damped. Logically, no doubt, she was right; but surely she might have helped him out a little in this difficult situation. Surely her woman's intuition should have told her that a man who has been speaking in a loud and cheerful voice does not lower it to a husky whisper without some reason. The hopelessness of his task began to weigh on him. Ever since that evening at Market Blandings Station, when he realized that he loved her, he had been trying to find an opportunity to tell her so; and every time they had met, the talk had seemed to be drawn irresistibly into practical and unsentimental channels. And now, when he was doing his best to reason it out that they were twin souls who had been brought together by a destiny it would be foolish to struggle against; when he was trying to convey the impression that fate had designed them for each other--she said, "Why?" It was hard. He was about to go deeper into the matter when, from the direction of the castle, he perceived the Honorable Freddie's valet--Mr. Judson--approaching. That it was this repellent young man's object to break in on them and rob him of his one small chance of inducing Joan to appreciate, as he did, the mysterious workings of Providence as they affected herself and him, was obvious. There was no mistaking the valet's desire for conversation. He had the air of one brimming over with speech. His wonted indolence was cast aside; and as he drew nearer he positively ran. He was talking before he reached them. "Miss Simpson, Mr. Marson, it's true--what I said that night. It's a fact!" Ashe regarded the intruder with a malevolent eye. Never fond of Mr. Judson, he looked on him now with positive loathing. It had not been easy for him to work himself up to the point where he could discuss with Joan the mysterious ways of Providence, for there was that about her which made it hard to achieve sentiment. That indefinable something in Joan Valentine which made for nocturnal raids on other people's museums also rendered her a somewhat difficult person to talk to about twin souls and destiny. The qualities that Ashe loved in her--her strength, her capability, her valiant self-sufficingness--were the very qualities which seemed to check him when he tried to tell her that he loved them. Mr. Judson was still babbling. "It's true. There ain't a doubt of it now. It's been and happened just as I said that night." "What did you say? Which night?" inquired Ashe. "That night at dinner--the first night you two came here. Don't you remember me talking about Freddie and the girl he used to write letters to in London--the girl I said was so like you, Miss Simpson? What was her name again? Joan Valentine. That was it. The girl at the theater that Freddie used to send me with letters to pretty nearly every evening. Well, she's been and done it, same as I told you all that night she was jolly likely to go and do. She's sticking young Freddie up for his letters, just as he ought to have known she would do if he hadn't been a young fathead. They're all alike, these girls--every one of them." Mr. Judson paused, subjected the surrounding scenery to a cautious scrutiny and resumed. "I took a suit of Freddie's clothes away to brush just now; and happening"--Mr. Judson paused and gave a little cough--"happening to glance at the contents of his pockets I come across a letter. I took a sort of look at it before setting it aside, and it was from a fellow named Jones; and it said that this girl, Valentine, was sticking onto young Freddie's letters what he'd written her, and would see him blowed if she parted with them under another thousand. And, as I made it out, Freddie had already given her five hundred. "Where he got it is more than I can understand; but that's what the letter said. This fellow Jones said he had passed it to her with his own hands; but she wasn't satisfied, and if she didn't get the other thousand she was going to bring an action for breach. And now Freddie has given me a note to take to this Jones, who is stopping in Market Blandings." Joan had listened to this remarkable speech with a stunned amazement. At this point she made her first comment: "But that can't be true." "Saw the letter with my own eyes, Miss Simpson." "But----" She looked at Ashe helplessly. Their eyes met--hers wide with perplexity, his bright with the light of comprehension. "It shows," said Ashe slowly, "that he was in immediate and urgent need of money." "You bet it does," said Mr. Judson with relish. "It looks to me as though young Freddie had about reached the end of his tether this time. My word! There won't half be a kick-up if she does sue him for breach! I'm off to tell Mr. Beach and the rest. They'll jump out of their skins." His face fell. "Oh, Lord, I was forgetting this note. He told me to take it at once." "I'll take it for you," said Ashe. "I'm not doing anything." Mr. Judson's gratitude was effusive. "You're a good fellow, Marson," he said. "I'll do as much for you another time. I couldn't hardly bear not to tell a bit of news like this right away. I should burst or something." And Mr. Judson, with shining face, hurried off to the housekeeper's room. "I simply can't understand it," said Joan at length. "My head is going round." "Can't understand it? Why, it's perfectly clear. This is the coincidence for which, in my capacity of Gridley Quayle, I was waiting. I can now resume inductive reasoning. Weighing the evidence, what do we find? That young sweep, Freddie, is the man. He has the scarab." "But it's all such a muddle. I'm not holding his letters." "For Jones' purposes you are. Let's get this Jones element in the affair straightened out. What do you know of him?" "He was an enormously fat man who came to see me one night and said he had been sent to get back some letters. I told him I had destroyed them ages ago and he went away." "Well, that part of it is clear, then. He is working a simple but ingenious game on Freddie. It wouldn't succeed with everybody, I suppose; but from what I have seen and heard of him Freddie isn't strong on intellect. He seems to have accepted the story without a murmur. What does he do? He has to raise a thousand pounds immediately, and the raising of the first five hundred has exhausted his credit. He gets the idea of stealing the scarab!" "But why? Why should he have thought of the scarab at all? That is what I can't understand. He couldn't have meant to give it to Mr. Peters and claim the reward. He couldn't have known that Mr. Peters was offering a reward. He couldn't have known that Lord Emsworth had not got the scarab quite properly. He couldn't have known--he couldn't have known anything!" Ashe's enthusiasm was a trifle damped. "There's something in that. But--I have it! Jones must have known about the scarab and told him." "But how could he have known?" "Yes; there's something in that, too. How could Jones have known?" "He couldn't. He had gone by the time Aline came that night." "I don't quite understand. Which night?" "It was the night of the day I first met you. I was wondering for a moment whether he could by any chance have overheard Aline telling me about the scarab and the reward Mr. Peters was offering for it." "Overheard! That word is like a bugle blast to me. Nine out of ten of Gridley Quayle's triumphs were due to his having overheard something. I think we are now on the right track." "I don't. How could he have overheard us? The door was closed and he was in the street by that time." "How do you know he was in the street? Did you see him out?" "No; but he went." "He might have waited on the stairs--you remember how dark they are at Number Seven--and listened." "Why?" Ashe reflected. "Why? Why? What a beast of a word that is--the detective's bugbear. I thought I had it, until you said--Great Scott! I'll tell you why. I see it all. I have him with the goods. His object in coming to see you about the letters was because Freddie wanted them back owing to his approaching marriage with Miss Peters--wasn't it?" "Yes." "You tell him you have destroyed the letters. He goes off. Am I right?" "Yes." "Before he is out of the house Miss Peters is giving her name at the front door. Put yourself in Jones' place. What does he think? He is suspicious. He thinks there is some game on. He skips upstairs again, waits until Miss Peters has gone into your room, then stands outside and listens. How about that?" "I do believe you are right. He might quite easily have done that." "He did do exactly that. I know it as though I had been there; in fact, it is highly probable I was there. You say all this happened on the night we first met? I remember coming downstairs that night--I was going out to a vaudeville show--and hearing voices in your room. I remember it distinctly. In all probability I nearly ran into Jones." "It does all seem to fit in, doesn't it?" "It's a clear case. There isn't a flaw in it. The only question is, can I, on the evidence, go to young Freddie and choke the scarab out of him? On the whole, I think I had better take this note to Jones, as I promised Judson, and see whether I can't work something through him. Yes; that's the best plan. I'll be starting at once." * * * Perhaps the greatest hardship in being an invalid is the fact that people come and see you and keep your spirits up. The Honorable Freddie Threepwood suffered extremely from this. His was not a gregarious nature and it fatigued his limited brain powers to have to find conversation for his numerous visitors. All he wanted was to be left alone to read the adventures of Gridley Quayle, and when tired of doing that to lie on his back and look at the ceiling and think of nothing. It is your dynamic person, your energetic world's worker, who chafes at being laid up with a sprained ankle. The Honorable Freddie enjoyed it. From boyhood up he had loved lying in bed; and now that fate had allowed him to do this without incurring rebuke he objected to having his reveries broken up by officious relations. He spent his rare intervals of solitude in trying to decide in his mind which of his cousins, uncles and aunts was, all things considered, the greatest nuisance. Sometimes he would give the palm to Colonel Horace Mant, who struck the soldierly note--"I recollect in a hill campaign in the winter of the year '93 giving my ankle the deuce of a twist." Anon the more spiritual attitude of the Bishop of Godalming seemed to annoy him more keenly. Sometimes he would head the list with the name of his Cousin Percy--Lord Stockheath--who refused to talk of anything except his late breach-of-promise case and the effect the verdict had had on his old governor. Freddie was in no mood just now to be sympathetic with others on their breach-of-promise cases. As he lay in bed reading on Monday morning, the only flaw in his enjoyment of this unaccustomed solitude was the thought that presently the door was bound to open and some kind inquirer insinuate himself into the room. His apprehensions proved well founded. Scarcely had he got well into the details of an ingenious plot on the part of a secret society to eliminate Gridley Quayle by bribing his cook--a bad lot--to sprinkle chopped-up horsehair in his chicken fricassee, when the door-knob turned and Ashe Marson came in. Freddie was not the only person who had found the influx of visitors into the sick room a source of irritation. The fact that the invalid seemed unable to get a moment to himself had annoyed Ashe considerably. For some little time he had hung about the passage in which Freddie's room was situated, full of enterprise, but unable to make a forward move owing to the throng of sympathizers. What he had to say to the sufferer could not be said in the presence of a third party. Freddie's sensation, on perceiving him, was one of relief. He had been half afraid it was the bishop. He recognized Ashe as the valet chappie who had helped him to bed on the occasion of his accident. It might be that he had come in a respectful way to make inquiries, but he was not likely to stop long. He nodded and went on reading. And then, glancing up, he perceived Ashe standing beside the bed, fixing him with a piercing stare. The Honorable Freddie hated piercing stares. One of the reasons why he objected to being left alone with his future father-in-law, Mr. J. Preston Peters, was that Nature had given the millionaire a penetrating pair of eyes, and the stress of business life in New York had developed in him a habit of boring holes in people with them. A young man had to have a stronger nerve and a clearer conscience than the Honorable Freddie to enjoy a tete-a-tete with Mr. Peters. Though he accepted Aline's father as a necessary evil and recognized that his position entitled him to look at people as sharply as he liked, whatever their feelings, he would be hanged if he was going to extend this privilege to Mr. Peters' valet. This man standing beside him was giving him a look that seemed to his sensitive imagination to have been fired red-hot from a gun; and this annoyed and exasperated Freddie. "What do you want?" he said querulously. "What are you staring at me like that for?" Ashe sat down, leaned his elbows on the bed, and applied the look again from a lower elevation. "Ah!" he said. Whatever may have been Ashe's defects, so far as the handling of the inductive-reasoning side of Gridley Quayle's character was concerned, there was one scene in each of his stories in which he never failed. That was the scene in the last chapter where Quayle, confronting his quarry, unmasked him. Quayle might have floundered in the earlier part of the story, but in his big scene he was exactly right. He was curt, crisp and mercilessly compelling. Ashe, rehearsing this interview in the passage before his entry, had decided that he could hardly do better than model himself on the detective. So he began to be curt, crisp and mercilessly compelling to Freddie; and after the first few sentences he had that youth gasping for air. "I will tell you," he said. "If you can spare me a few moments of your valuable time I will put the facts before you. Yes; press that bell if you wish--and I will put them before witnesses. Lord Emsworth will no doubt be pleased to learn that his son, whom he trusted, is a thief!" Freddie's hand fell limply. The bell remained un-touched. His mouth opened to its fullest extent. In the midst of his panic he had a curious feeling that he had heard or read that last sentence somewhere before. Then he remembered. Those very words occurred in Gridley Quayle, Investigator--The Adventure of the Blue Ruby. "What--what do you mean?" he stammered. "I will tell you what I mean. On Saturday night a valuable scarab was stolen from Lord Emsworth's private museum. The case was put into my hands----" "Great Scott! Are you a detective?" "Ah!" said Ashe. Life, as many a worthy writer has pointed out, is full of ironies. It seemed to Freddie that here was a supreme example of this fact. All these years he had wanted to meet a detective; and now that his wish had been gratified the detective was detecting him! "The case," continued Ashe severely, "was placed in my hands. I investigated it. I discovered that you were in urgent and immediate need of money." "How on earth did you do that?" "Ah!" said Ashe. "I further discovered that you were in communication with an individual named Jones." "Good Lord! How?" Ashe smiled quietly. "Yesterday I had a talk with this man Jones, who is staying in Market Blandings. Why is he staying in Market Blandings? Because he had a reason for keeping in touch with you; because you were about to transfer to his care something you could get possession of, but which only he could dispose of--the scarab." The Honorable Freddie was beyond speech. He made no comment on this statement. Ashe continued: "I interviewed this man Jones. I said to him: 'I am in the Honorable Frederick Threepwood's confidence. I know everything. Have you any instructions for me?' He replied: 'What do you know?' I answered: 'I know that the Honorable Frederick Threepwood has something he wishes to hand to you, but which he has been unable to hand to you owing to having had an accident and being confined to his room.' He then told me to tell you to let him have the scarab by messenger." Freddie pulled himself together with an effort. He was in sore straits, but he saw one last chance. His researches in detective fiction had given him the knowledge that detectives occasionally relaxed their austerity when dealing with a deserving case. Even Gridley Quayle could sometimes be softened by a hard-luck story. Freddie could recall half a dozen times when a detected criminal had been spared by him because he had done it all from the best motives. He determined to throw himself on Ashe's mercy. "I say, you know," he said ingratiatingly, "I think it's bally marvelous the way you've deduced everything, and so on." "Well?" "But I believe you would chuck it if you heard my side of the case." "I know your side of the case. You think you are being blackmailed by a Miss Valentine for some letters you once wrote her. You are not. Miss Valentine has destroyed the letters. She told the man Jones so when he went to see her in London. He kept your five hundred pounds and is trying to get another thousand out of you under false pretenses." "What? You can't be right." "I am always right." "You must be mistaken." "I am never mistaken." "But how do you know?" "I have my sources of information." "She isn't going to sue me for breach of promise?" "She never had any intention of doing so." The Honorable Freddie sank back on the pillows. "Good egg!" he said with fervor. He beamed happily. "This," he observed, "is a bit of all right." For a space relief held him dumb. Then another aspect of the matter struck him, and he sat up again with a jerk. "I say, you don't mean to say that that rotter Jones was such a rotter as to do a rotten thing like that?" "I do." Freddie grew plaintive. "I trusted that man," he said. "I jolly well trusted him absolutely." "I know," said Ashe. "There is one born every minute." "But"--the thing seemed to be filtering slowly into Freddie's intelligence "what I mean to say is, I--I--thought he was such a good chap." "My short acquaintance with Mr. Jones," said Ashe "leads me to think that he probably is--to himself." "I won't have anything more to do with him." "I shouldn't." "Dash it, I'll tell you what I'll do. The very next time I meet the blighter, I'll cut him dead. I will! The rotter! Five hundred quid he's had off me for nothing! And, if it hadn't been for you, he'd have had another thousand! I'm beginning to think that my old governor wasn't so far wrong when he used to curse me for going around with Jones and the rest of that crowd. He knew a bit, by Gad! Well, I'm through with them. If the governor ever lets me go to London again, I won't have anything to do with them. I'll jolly well cut the whole bunch! And to think that, if it hadn't been for you . . ." "Never mind that," said Ashe. "Give me the scarab. Where is it?" "What are you going to do with it?" "Restore it to its rightful owner." "Are you going to give me away to the governor?" "I am not." "It strikes me," said Freddie gratefully, "that you are a dashed good sort. You seem to me to have the making of an absolute topper! It's under the mattress. I had it on me when I fell downstairs and I had to shove it in there." Ashe drew it out. He stood looking at it, absorbed. He could hardly believe his quest was at an end and that a small fortune lay in the palm of his hand. Freddie was eyeing him admiringly. "You know," he said, "I've always wanted to meet a detective. What beats me is how you chappies find out things." "We have our methods." "I believe you. You're a blooming marvel! What first put you on my track?" "That," said Ashe, "would take too long to explain. Of course I had to do some tense inductive reasoning; but I cannot trace every link in the chain for you. It would be tedious." "Not to me." "Some other time." "I say, I wonder whether you've ever read any of these things--these Gridley Quayle stories? I know them by heart." With the scarab safely in his pocket, Ashe could contemplate the brightly-colored volume the other extended toward him without active repulsion. Already he was beginning to feel a sort of sentiment for the depressing Quayle, as something that had once formed part of his life. "Do you read these things?" "I should say not. I write them." There are certain supreme moments that cannot be adequately described. Freddie's appreciation of the fact that such a moment had occurred in his life expressed itself in a startled cry and a convulsive movement of all his limbs. He shot up from the pillows and gaped at Ashe. "You write them? You don't mean, write them!" "Yes." "Great Scott!" He would have gone on, doubtless, to say more; but at this moment voices made themselves heard outside the door. There was a movement of feet. Then the door opened and a small procession entered. It was headed by the Earl of Emsworth. Following him came Mr. Peters. And in the wake of the millionaire were Colonel Horace Mant and the Efficient Baxter. They filed into the room and stood by the bedside. Ashe seized the opportunity to slip out. Freddie glanced at the deputation without interest. His mind was occupied with other matters. He supposed they had come to inquire after his ankle and he was mildly thankful that they had come in a body instead of one by one. The deputation grouped itself about the bed and shuffled its feet. There was an atmosphere of awkwardness. "Er--Frederick!" said Lord Emsworth. "Freddie, my boy!" Mr. Peters fiddled dumbly with the coverlet. Colonel Mant cleared his throat. The Efficient Baxter scowled. "Er--Freddie, my dear boy, I fear we have a painful--er--task to perform." The words struck straight home at the Honorable Freddie's guilty conscience. Had they, too, tracked him down? And was he now to be accused of having stolen that infernal scarab? A wave of relief swept over him as he realized that he had got rid of the thing. A decent chappie like that detective would not give him away. All he had to do was to keep his head and stick to stout denial. That was the game--stout denial. "I don't know what you mean," he said defensively. "Of course you don't--dash it!" said Colonel Mant. "We're coming to that. And I should like to begin by saying that, though in a sense it was my fault, I fail to see how I could have acted---" "Horace!" "Oh, very well! I was only trying to explain." Lord Emsworth adjusted his pince-nez and sought inspiration from the wall paper. "Freddie, my boy," he began, "we have a somewhat unpleasant--a somewhat er--disturbing--We are compelled to break it to you. We are all most pained and astounded; and--" The Efficient Baxter spoke. It was plain he was in a bad temper. "Miss Peters," he snapped, "has eloped with your friend Emerson." Lord Emsworth breathed a sigh of relief. "Exactly, Baxter. Precisely! You have put the thing in a nutshell. Really, my dear fellow, you are invaluable." All eyes searched Freddie's face for signs of uncontrollable emotion. The deputation waited anxiously for his first grief-stricken cry. "Eh? What?" said Freddie. "It is quite true, Freddie, my dear boy. She went to London with him on the ten-fifty." "And if I had not been forcibly restrained," said Baxter acidly, casting a vindictive look at Colonel Mant, "I could have prevented it." Colonel Mant cleared his throat again and put a hand to his mustache. "I'm afraid that is true, Freddie. It was a most unfortunate misunderstanding. I'll tell you how it happened: I chanced to be at the station bookstall when the train came in. Mr. Baxter was also in the station. The train pulled up and this young fellow Emerson got in--said good-by to us, don't you know, and got in. Just as the train was about to start, Miss Peters exclaiming, 'George dear, I'm going with you---, dash it,' or some such speech--proceeded to go--hell for leather--to the door of young Emerson's compartment. On which---" "On which," interrupted Baxter, "I made a spring to try and catch her. Apart from any other consideration, the train was already moving and Miss Peters ran considerable risk of injury. I had hardly moved when I felt a violent jerk at my ankle and fell to the ground. After I had recovered from the shock, which was not immediately, I found--" "The fact is, Freddie, my boy," the colonel went on, "I acted under a misapprehension. Nobody can be sorrier for the mistake than I; but recent events in this house had left me with the impression that Mr. Baxter here was not quite responsible for his actions--overwork or something, I imagined. I have seen it happen so often in India, don't you know, where fellows run amuck and kick up the deuce's own delight. I am bound to admit that I have been watching Mr. Baxter rather closely lately in the expectation that something of this very kind might happen. "Of course I now realize my mistake; and I have apologized-- apologized humbly--dash it! But at the moment I was firmly under the impression that our friend here had an attack of some kind and was about to inflict injuries on Miss Peters. If I've seen it happen once in India, I've seen it happen a dozen times. "I recollect, in the hot weather of the year '99---or was it '93?--I think '93---one of my native bearers--However, I sprang forward and caught the crook of my walking stick on Mr. Baxter's ankle and brought him down. And by the time explanations were made it was too late. The train had gone, with Miss Peters in it." "And a telegram has just arrived," said Lord Emsworth, "to say that they are being married this afternoon at a registrar's. The whole occurrence is most disturbing." "Bear it like a man, my boy!" urged Colonel Mant. To all appearances Freddie was bearing it magnificently. Not a single exclamation, either of wrath or pain, had escaped his lips. One would have said the shock had stunned him or that he had not heard, for his face expressed no emotion whatever. The fact was, the story had made very little impression on the Honorable Freddie of any sort. His relief at Ashe's news about Joan Valentine; the stunning joy of having met in the flesh the author of the adventures of Gridley Quayle; the general feeling that all was now right with the world--these things deprived him of the ability to be greatly distressed. And there was a distinct feeling of relief--actual relief--that now it would not be necessary for him to get married. He had liked Aline; but whenever he really thought of it the prospect of getting married rather appalled him. A chappie looked such an ass getting married! It appeared, however, that some verbal comment on the state of affairs was required of him. He searched his mind for something adequate. "You mean to say Aline has bolted with Emerson?" The deputation nodded pained nods. Freddie searched in his mind again. The deputation held its breath. "Well, I'm blowed!" said Freddie. "Fancy that!" * * * Mr. Peters walked heavily into his room. Ashe Marson was waiting for him there. He eyed Ashe dully. "Pack!" he said. "Pack?" "Pack! We're getting out of here by the afternoon train." "Has anything happened?" "My daughter has eloped with Emerson." "What!" "Don't stand there saying, 'What!' Pack." Ashe put his hand in his pocket. "Where shall I put this?" he asked. For a moment Mr. Peters looked without comprehension at what Ashe was holding out; then his whole demeanor altered. His eyes lit up. He uttered a howl of pure rapture: "You got it!" "I got it." "Where was it? Who took it? How did you choke it out of them? How did you find it? Who had it?" "I don't know whether I ought to say. I don't want to start anything. You won't tell anyone?" "Tell anyone! What do you take me for? Do you think I am going about advertising this? If I can sneak out without that fellow Baxter jumping on my back I shall be satisfied. You can take it from me that there won't be any sensational exposures if I can help it. Who had it?" "Young Threepwood." "Threepwood? Why did he want it?" "He needed money and he was going to raise it on--" Mr. Peters exploded. "And I have been kicking because Aline can't marry him and has gone off with a regular fellow like young Emerson! He's a good boy--young Emerson. I knew his folks. He'll make a name for himself one of these days. He's got get-up in him. And I have been waiting to shoot him because he has taken Aline away from that goggle-eyed chump up in bed there! "Why, if she had married Threepwood I should have had grandchildren who would have sneaked my watch while I was dancing them on my knee! There is a taint of some sort in the whole family. Father sneaks my Cheops and sonny sneaks it from father. What a gang! And the best blood in England! If that's England's idea of good blood give me Hoboken! This settles it. I was a chump ever to come to a country like this. Property isn't safe here. I'm going back to America on the next boat. "Where's my check book? I'm going to write you that check right away. You've earned it. Listen, young man; I don't know what your ideas are, but if you aren't chained to this country I'll make it worth your while to stay on with me. They say no one's indispensable, but you come mighty near it. If I had you at my elbow for a few years I'd get right back into shape. I'm feeling better now than I have felt in years--and you've only just started in on me. "How about it? You can call yourself what you like--secretary or trainer, or whatever suits you best. What you will be is the fellow who makes me take exercise and stop smoking cigars, and generally looks after me. How do you feel about it?" It was a proposition that appealed both to Ashe's commercial and to his missionary instincts. His only regret had been that, the scarab recovered, he and Mr. Peters would now, he supposed, part company. He had not liked the idea of sending the millionaire back to the world a half-cured man. Already he had begun to look on him in the light of a piece of creative work to which he had just set his hand. But the thought of Joan gave him pause. If this meant separation from Joan it was not to be considered. "Let me think it over," he said. "Well, think quick!" said Mr. Peters. * * * It has been said by those who have been through fires, earthquakes and shipwrecks that in such times of stress the social barriers are temporarily broken down, and the spectacle may be seen of persons of the highest social standing speaking quite freely to persons who are not in society at all; and of quite nice people addressing others to whom they have never been introduced. The news of Aline Peters' elopement with George Emerson, carried beyond the green-baize door by Slingsby, the chauffeur, produced very much the same state of affairs in the servants' quarters at Blandings Castle. It was not only that Slingsby was permitted to penetrate into the housekeeper's room and tell his story to his social superiors there, though that was an absolutely unprecedented occurrence; what was really extraordinary was that mere menials discussed the affair with the personal ladies and gentlemen of the castle guests, and were allowed to do so uncrushed. James, the footman--that pushing individual--actually shoved his way into the room, and was heard by witnesses to remark to no less a person than Mr. Beach that it was a bit thick. And it is on record that his fellow footman, Alfred, meeting the groom of the chambers in the passage outside, positively prodded him in the lower ribs, winked, and said: "What a day we're having!" One has to go back to the worst excesses of the French Revolution to parallel these outrages. It was held by Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow afterward that the social fabric of the castle never fully recovered from this upheaval. It may be they took an extreme view of the matter, but it cannot be denied that it wrought changes. The rise of Slingsby is a case in point. Until this affair took place the chauffeur's standing had never been satisfactorily settled. Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow led the party which considered that he was merely a species of coachman; but there was a smaller group which, dazzled by Slingsby's personality, openly declared it was not right that he should take his meals in the servants' hall with such admitted plebeians as the odd man and the steward's-room footman. The Aline-George elopement settled the point once and for all. Slingsby had carried George's bag to the train. Slingsby had been standing a few yards from the spot where Aline began her dash for the carriage door. Slingsby was able to exhibit the actual half sovereign with which George had tipped him only five minutes before the great event. To send such a public man back to the servants' hall was impossible. By unspoken consent the chauffeur dined that night in the steward's room, from which he was never dislodged. Mr. Judson alone stood apart from the throng that clustered about the chauffeur. He was suffering the bitterness of the supplanted. A brief while before and he had been the central figure, with his story of the letter he had found in the Honorable Freddie's coat pocket. Now the importance of his story had been engulfed in that of this later and greater sensation, Mr. Judson was learning, for the first time, on what unstable foundations popularity stands. Joan was nowhere to be seen. In none of the spots where she might have been expected to be at such a time was she to be found. Ashe had almost given up the search when, going to the back door and looking out as a last chance, he perceived her walking slowly on the gravel drive. She greeted Ashe with a smile, but something was plainly troubling her. She did not speak for a moment and they walked side by side. "What is it?" said Ashe at length. "What is the matter?" She looked at him gravely. "Gloom," she said. "Despondency, Mr. Marson--A sort of flat feeling. Don't you hate things happening?" "I don't quite understand." "Well, this affair of Aline, for instance. It's so big it makes one feel as though the whole world had altered. I should like nothing to happen ever, and life just to jog peacefully along. That's not the gospel I preached to you in Arundell Street, is it! I thought I was an advanced apostle of action; but I seem to have changed. I'm afraid I shall never be able to make clear what I do mean. I only know I feel as though I have suddenly grown old. These things are such milestones. Already I am beginning to look on the time before Aline behaved so sensationally as terribly remote. To-morrow it will be worse, and the day after that worse still. I can see that you don't in the least understand what I mean." "Yes; I do--or I think I do. What it comes to, in a few words, is that somebody you were fond of has gone out of your life. Is that it?" Joan nodded. "Yes--at least, that is partly it. I didn't really know Aline particularly well, beyond having been at school with her, but you're right. It's not so much what has happened as what it represents that matters. This elopement has marked the end of a phase of my life. I think I have it now. My life has been such a series of jerks. I dash along--then something happens which stops that bit of my life with a jerk; and then I have to start over again--a new bit. I think I'm getting tired of jerks. I want something stodgy and continuous. "I'm like one of the old bus horses that could go on forever if people got off without making them stop. It's the having to get the bus moving again that wears one out. This little section of my life since we came here is over, and it is finished for good. I've got to start the bus going again on a new road and with a new set of passengers. I wonder whether the old horses used to be sorry when they dropped one lot of passengers and took on a lot of strangers?" A sudden dryness invaded Ashe's throat. He tried to speak, but found no words. Joan went on: "Do you ever get moods when life seems absolutely meaningless? It's like a badly-constructed story, with all sorts of characters moving in and out who have nothing to do with the plot. And when somebody comes along that you think really has something to do with the plot, he suddenly drops out. After a while you begin to wonder what the story is about, and you feel that it's about nothing--just a jumble." "There is one thing," said Ashe, "that knits it together." "What is that?" "The love interest." Their eyes met and suddenly there descended on Ashe confidence. He felt cool and alert, sure of himself, as in the old days he had felt when he ran races and, the nerve-racking hours of waiting past, he listened for the starter's gun. Subconsciously he was aware he had always been a little afraid of Joan, and that now he was no longer afraid. "Joan, will you marry me?" Her eyes wandered from his face. He waited. "I wonder!" she said softly. "You think that is the solution?" "Yes." "How can you tell?" she broke out. "We scarcely know each other. I shan't always be in this mood. I may get restless again. I may find it is the jerks that I really like." "You won't!" "You're very confident." "I am absolutely confident." "'She travels fastest who travels alone,'" misquoted Joan. "What is the good," said Ashe, "of traveling fast if you're going round in a circle? I know how you feel. I've felt the same myself. You are an individualist. You think there is something tremendous just round the corner and that you can get it if you try hard enough. There isn't--or if there is it isn't worth getting. Life is nothing but a mutual aid association. I am going to help old Peters--you are going to help me--I am going to help you." "Help me to do what?" "Make life coherent instead of a jumble." "Mr. Marson---" "Don't call me Mr. Marson." "Ashe, you don't know what you are doing. You don't know me. I've been knocking about the world for five years and I'm hard--hard right through. I should make you wretched." "You are not in the least hard--and you know it. Listen to me, Joan. Where's your sense of fairness? You crash into my life, turn it upside down, dig me out of my quiet groove, revolutionize my whole existence; and now you propose to drop me and pay no further attention to me. Is it fair?" "But I don't. We shall always be the best of friends." "We shall--but we will get married first." "You are determined?" "I am!" Joan laughed happily. "How perfectly splendid! I was terrified lest I might have made you change your mind. I had to say all I did to preserve my self-respect after proposing to you. Yes; I did. How strange it is that men never seem to understand a woman, however plainly she talks! You don't think I was really worrying because I had lost Aline, do you? I thought I was going to lose you, and it made me miserable. You couldn't expect me to say it in so many words; but I thought--I was hoping--you guessed. I practically said it. Ashe! What are you doing?" Ashe paused for a moment to reply. "I am kissing you," he said. "But you mustn't! There's a scullery maid or somebody looking through the kitchen window. She will see us." Ashe drew her to him. "Scullery maids have few pleasures," he said. "Theirs is a dull life. Let her see us." CHAPTER XII The Earl of Emsworth sat by the sick bed and regarded the Honorable Freddie almost tenderly. "I fear, Freddie, my dear boy, this has been a great shock to you." "Eh? What? Yes--rather! Deuce of a shock, gov'nor." "I have been thinking it over, my boy, and perhaps I have been a little hard on you. When your ankle is better I have decided to renew your allowance; and you may return to London, as you do not seem happy in the country. Though how any reasonable being can prefer--" The Honorable Freddie started, pop-eyed, to a sitting posture. "My word! Not really?" His father nodded. "I say, gov'nor, you really are a topper! You really are, you know! I know just how you feel about the country and the jolly old birds and trees and chasing the bally slugs off the young geraniums and all that sort of thing, but somehow it's never quite hit me the same way. It's the way I'm built, I suppose. I like asphalt streets and crowds and dodging taxis and meeting chappies at the club and popping in at the Empire for half an hour and so forth. And there's something about having an allowance--I don't know . . . sort of makes you chuck your chest out and feel you're someone. I don't know how to thank you, gov'nor! You're--you're an absolute sportsman! This is the most priceless bit of work you've ever done. I feel like a two-year-old. I don't know when I've felt so braced. I--I--really, you know, gov'nor, I'm most awfully grateful." "Exactly," said Lord Emsworth. "Ah--precisely. But, Freddie, my boy," he added, not without pathos, "there is just one thing more. Do you think that--with an effort--for my sake--you could endeavor this time not to make a--a damned fool of yourself?" He eyed his offspring wistfully. "Gov'nor," said the Honorable Freddie firmly, "I'll have a jolly good stab at it!" 
40355	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Internet Archive. [Illustration: Book Cover] NOOKS AND CORNERS OF SHROPSHIRE [Illustration] [Illustration: Butcher Row. Shrewsbury.] Nooks and Corners of Shropshire. BY H. THORNHILL TIMMINS, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF 'NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HEREFORDSHIRE,' 'NOOKS AND CORNERS OF PEMBROKESHIRE.' _WITH MAP AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS_ _BY THE AUTHOR._ LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1899. PREFACE My work completed, I may be permitted to add a few words by way of envoi. 'Nooks and Corners' is the outcome of many prolonged sketching rambles in Shropshire, where, as I roamed about the County, in search of subjects for pen and pencil, I succeeded in gleaning a good deal of original information anent the places I visited; and I was greeted by all sorts and conditions of Salopians with that hospitality for which they are proverbial, and which has left me their grateful debtor. Though the more important places here illustrated are probably familiar to many of my readers, there are certain scenes and objects in the course of this work which have never been pictured or described before, and which will, I trust, prove of interest to Salopians. Amidst such an embarras de richesses, I have of necessity been obliged to pick and choose the subjects dealt with; for in matter antiquarian the locality is well-nigh inexhaustible. But if the gentle reader, in perusing the following pages, should share in some degree my own pleasure and interest in compiling them, I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that I have not rambled in vain amidst the Nooks and Corners of Shropshire. H. THORNHILL TIMMINS. HARROW, _November_, 1899. CONTENTS PAGE A GENERAL SURVEY. THE TOWN OF SHREWSBURY 1 FROM SHREWSBURY TO PITCHFORD, ACTON BURNELL, AND CHURCH STRETTON 21 STRETTON DALE AND THE LONGMYND. A VISIT TO STOKESAY CASTLE 42 FROM CRAVEN ARMS TO BISHOP'S CASTLE AND CLUN 60 ROUND ABOUT CLUN FOREST. TO KNIGHTON AND LUDLOW 79 ROUND ABOUT LUDLOW 94 THE CLEE HILLS, CORVE DALE, AND WENLOCK EDGE 108 WENLOCK, WROXETER, AND THE WREKIN 135 TO LILLESHALL ABBEY, TONG, AND BOSCOBEL 153 ROUND ABOUT BRIDGNORTH 171 BETWEEN SEVERN AND CLEE 194 WESTWARD HO! TOWARDS THE WELSH BORDER 214 INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS BUTCHER ROW, SHREWSBURY _Frontispiece_ SHREWSBURY SCHOOL 5 OLD COUNCIL HOUSE, SHREWSBURY 7 REMAINS OF BENNETT'S HALL 11 A BYEWAY IN OLD SHREWSBURY 12 OLD MARKET HOUSE, SHREWSBURY 14 OLD HOUSES IN WYLE COP 15 ANCIENT PULPIT AT SHREWSBURY 17 OLD WINDMILL AT LYTH HILL 20 STAPLETON CHURCH 22 CONDOVER HALL 23 THE HOUSE IN THE TREE, PITCHFORD 25 PITCHFORD HALL 26 ACTON BURNELL 28 NICHOLAS DE BURNELL 29 KENLEY CHURCH 31 LANGLEY 33 FRODESLEY LODGE 34 OLD BRIDGE ON 'DEVIL'S CAUSEWAY' 35 PANEL AT CHURCH PREEN 36 PLASH 37 CARDINGTON 38 LEIGHTONS OF PLASHE 39 CHALICE AT HOPE BOWDLER 40 SIR RALPH DE PITCHFORD 41 CHURCH STRETTON 42 CHURCH STRETTON CHURCH 43 ADAM AND EVE 44 CHURCH STRETTON AND THE LONGMYND 45 WOOLSTASTON CHURCH AND RECTORY 46 FONT AT WOOLSTASTON 47 ACTON SCOTT HALL 50 ALCESTON 51 HALFORD CHURCH AND MILL 52 STOKESAY CASTLE 53 THE GATE HOUSE, STOKESAY 54 STOKESAY CHURCH 57 CARVED PANEL AT STOKESAY 59 PLOWDEN HALL 61 LEA CASTLE 66 BISHOP'S CASTLE 68 BISHOP'S CASTLE 69 GARDE DOLOREUSE 73 OLD LYCH GATE AT CLUN 75 CLUN HOSPITAL 77 SEAL OF CLUN HOSPITAL 78 BETTWS-Y-CRWYN 82 CHALICE AT BETTWS-Y-CRWYN 83 THE CANTLIN CROSS 84 STOWE 86 STAIRCASE, HEATH HOUSE 89 HOPTON CASTLE 90 BRANKS AT LUDLOW 93 LUDLOW CASTLE 95 LUDLOW CASTLE AND CHURCH 95 PALMER'S GUILD, LUDLOW 103 FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW 105 A 'MISERERE' AT LUDLOW 107 HAUNTED HOUSE, BITTERLEY 109 CROSS AT BITTERLEY 110 CROW LEASOW 111 STANTON LACY 113 DELBURY CHURCH 116 CHURCH-PORCH, MUNSLOW 118 TUGFORD CHURCH 120 THE HEATH CHAPEL 121 INTERIOR OF THE HEATH CHAPEL 121 UPPER MILLICHOPE 125 RUSHBURY 126 NORMAN DOORWAY, HOLGATE CHURCH 128 SHIPTON HALL 129 HOUR-GLASS, EASTHOPE CHURCH 132 HINGE AT STANTON LONG 134 CHAPTER-HOUSE, MUCH WENLOCK 137 MUCH WENLOCK 138 OLD INN-SIGN AT BROSELEY 140 BUILDWAS ABBEY 142 MADELEY COURT 144 THE LADY OAK, CRESSAGE 146 URICONIUM AND WROXETER 148 ATCHAM 150 THE SIGN OF THE RAVEN 152 LILLESHALL ABBEY 153 SHIFFNAL 155 SHIFFNAL CHURCH 156 TONG CASTLE 158 TONG CHURCH 158 WOOD-CARVING AT TONG 159 A TREASURE FROM TONG 160 SIR ARTHUR VERNON 161 HUBBAL GRANGE 162 BOSCOBEL HOUSE 163 BOSCOBEL 163 DAME PENDEREL 164 AT WHITELADIES 166 ALBRIGHTON 168 WELL-COVER AT PEPPERHILL 169 THE ROYAL OAK 170 BRIDGNORTH 171 ANCIENT HOUSE, BRIDGNORTH 172 MARKET-PLACE, BRIDGNORTH 174 MARKET-DAY AT BRIDGNORTH 175 COTTAGE IN THE ROCK, BRIDGNORTH 179 WORFIELD 180 LUDSTONE 182 CLAVERLEY 183 DUNVALL 187 TYMPANUM, ASTON EYRES 189 UPTON CRESSETT CHURCH 191 UPTON CRESSETT HALL 192 STOCKS AT STOCKTON 193 THE BUTTER CROSS, ALVELEY 197 ALVELEY CHURCH 198 KINLET HALL 200 KINLET CHURCH 201 CLEOBURY MORTIMER 205 DOWLES MANOR HOUSE 207 BURFORD 209 ANCIENT CROSS AT HIGHLEY 213 CHIMNEYPIECE, MOAT HALL 214 MITCHELL'S FOLD 217 VIRGIN AND CHILD, CHIRBURY 221 ANCIENT SUNDIAL AT MARRINGTON 223 MARCHE MANOR FARM 227 OLD THOMAS PARR 228 BRAGGINGTON HALL 229 ALBERBURY CHURCH 232 WATTLESBOROUGH CASTLE 234 THE SHELTON OAK 235 A MAIDEN GARLAND 237 SHREWSBURY SEAL 238 MAP OF SHROPSHIRE _At end_ NOOKS AND CORNERS OF SHROPSHIRE 'On this side whiche the Sonne doth warm with his declining beames, Severn and Teme in channell deepe doo run, too antient Streames; These make the neibor's pasture riche, these yeld of fruit greate store; And doo convey thro out the Shire commodities manie more. Here hilles doo lift their heades aloft, from whence sweete springes doo flow, Whose moistur good doth firtil make the vallies coucht belowe. Here goodly orchards planted are, in fruite which doo abounde; Thine ey wold make thine hart rejoyce to see such pleasant grounde.' A GENERAL SURVEY. THE TOWN OF SHREWSBURY. Southern Shropshire whose nooks and corners we are about to explore is a pleasant, fertile country, where breezy heather-clad hills alternate with cornfields, orchards and pastures, and rich umbrageous woodlands. Goodly rivers such as the Severn and the Teme, besides brooks, rivulets and trout-streams, enrich the meadows in the sunny vales, or wake the silence of the lonely hills where the curlew and the lapwing make their homes. Situated upon the confines of England and Wales, this border district forms part of the March-lands which in olden times sundered the realm of England from the Principality, and hence one may enjoy within its comparatively moderate compass the diversified scenery peculiar to either country. As regards its physical features, therefore, Southern Shropshire presents in some sort an epitome or microcosm of England itself. A glance at the map will show that the whole south-western corner of Shropshire is occupied by the wild hill-country known as Clun Forest; whence a succession of lofty ridges, such as the Stiperstones, the Longmynd, the Caradoc Hills and Wenlock Edge, ramificate towards the north, in shape not unlike the fingers of a hand, whereof the Clee Hills, lying a little apart to the eastward, may be taken as representing the thumb. This hilly region is classic ground to the geologist. The extreme diversity of its rock structure early attracted the attention of students; and has been so thoroughly elucidated by Murchison, Ramsay, Salter, Lapworth, and other eminent scientists, that nowadays as the saying goes 'he who runs may read.' The Severn is _the_ river par excellence of Shropshire. With its important affluent the Teme, this noble river, in its course of more than fifty miles through the county, receives the waters of the entire district. After parting company with the rugged hills of Wales, the Severn emerges upon the plains of Shropshire, and sweeps in a bold curve around the town of Shrewsbury. Thenceforth the ever-widening river glides onward in placid reaches past the time-honoured ruins of Roman Uriconium, and lingers beside lush green water meadows, where the ruddy kine stand knee-deep in the rippling shallows, and the salmon fisher drifts by in his coracle as he spreads his nets athwart stream. Anon the Severn, changing its character, plunges along in eddying rapids beneath the limestone escarpments of Benthall and Wenlock Edge; then, taking a southerly trend, it skirts the groves and terraces of Apley Park, washes the walls of picturesque old Bridgnorth, and finally the big river takes leave of our county amidst the rough holts and heaths of that ancient woodland which goes by the name of Wyre Forest. Owing to the lie of the land, the more important streams of Southern Shropshire flow, not into the Severn itself, but into its tributary the Teme. The northern Rea, the Cound and the Worf, it is true, find their way direct to the former river; but the waters of the Clun, the Onny, the Ledwych and the southern Rea, go to swell the tide of the Teme. Dividing the county of Salop from its neighbour Herefordshire, the river Teme pursues a devious course through some of the most delightful scenery in all these broad March-lands. From its lonely source amidst the hills, away beyond the Welsh border, the infant Teme comes tumbling and prattling along beneath the rolling heights of Clun Forest, and, passing onwards to Ludlow, meanders beside the castle walls, and flows in a graceful arc around the rocky slopes of Whitcliff. Near Tenbury the Teme travels into Worcestershire, which it does not quit again until it merges its waters in those of the Severn. With all these varied attractions, its picturesque rural landscapes, its old-world towns and villages fraught with memories of the past, and the thousand-and-one sights, scents and sounds, that go to make up the indefinable charm of an English countryside, the visitor to Shropshire may find ample opportunity to gratify his particular taste, or pursue his favourite hobby, be it that of an artist, a sportsman, a botanist, or a votary of the 'gentle art'; while for the cyclist, and in a still greater measure for him who fares afoot, there lurks many a secluded nook in the unfrequented byways, or amidst the hollows of the silent hills; nooks where he may enjoy to heart's content the harvest of the quiet eye. From the antiquarian point of view, Shropshire is exceptionally interesting. Britons, Romans, Danes, Saxons and Normans, have all played their parts in moulding its early history, and have graven upon the natural features of the country indelible traces of their former domination. That Shropshire shared to the full in the drum and trumpet history of mediæval days, is attested by the ruined castles and strongholds to be met with on every hand. These we shall have occasion to refer to in the course of our rambles; so turn we now to the famous old town which forms the centre and focus of Salopian life. * * * * * Just about the middle of the county, islanded almost by a bold southward sweep of the Severn, stands Shrewsbury, the Pengwern of the old Welsh days, the Saxon Scrobbesbyrig; an ancient borough town and the capital of the district. Shrewsbury is a clean, cheerful, yet withal picturesque-looking city, where the tide of modern progress rolls to and fro along the steep old streets beside its ancient castle, past venerable parish churches and the quaint, half-timbered mansions of the ancienne noblesse. Hotels and lodging-houses are not far to seek, while highroads and lines of railway ramificate from Shrewsbury throughout the county; so the traveller who intends to explore the nooks and corners of the surrounding district cannot do better than take up his quarters for a time in the proud old city upon Severn side. The topography of Shrewsbury is tolerably simple. Encompassed on all sides save the north by the noble river Severn, the town spreads away up a gentle hill to the walls of its guardian castle. 'The Towne of Shrewesbury,' says John Leland, 'standeth on a Rocky Hill of Stone of a sad redde Earth, and Severne soe girdeth in all the Towne that, saving a little Peice, it were an Isle.' Right through the centre of the city, from south-east towards the west, runs the ancient highroad, or 'reddie way,' from London to North Wales; entering by way of the English Bridge, passing through the town under the names of Wyle Cop, High Street and Mardol, and emerging by the Welsh Bridge. At right angles to this thoroughfare lies Castle Street, leading up to the gates of the old Norman stronghold, and nowadays familiar to travellers as the road to the railway-station. Castle Street leads on to Pride Hill, one of the busiest arteries of the city, which in its turn is prolonged down St. John's Hill to the Quarry, a public park shaded by avenues of lofty lime trees, affording a pleasant stroll by Severn side. Here, some three centuries ago, Churchyard the Shropshire poet beheld: 'A space belowe to bait both Bull and Beare: For players, too, great roume, and place at will, And in the same a Cockpit, wondrous fayre, Besides, where men may wrestle in their fill.' [Illustration: SHREWSBURY SCHOOL.] Across the river rises Shrewsbury School, the handsome modern prototype of the older foundation in the town, encompassed by spacious demesnes and cricket fields, the scene in bygone times of the far-famed 'Shrewsbury Show.' Abbey Foregate, with its venerable monastic church, occupies what may be called the English side of the city; while the ancient suburb of Frankwell climbs the hill in a westerly direction, away beyond the Welsh Bridge. * * * * * We now set forth on a peregrination of the town, keeping an eye lifting for such relics of the past as may lie upon our road, and remarking the quaint nomenclature of some of the older streets. Immediately as we step outside the railway-station, the old city gives us a taste of its quality; for yonder rise the ruddy sandstone walls and round-towers of Shrewsbury Castle, 'built in such a brave Plott,' as an old writer observes, 'that it could have espyed a Byrd flying in every Streete.' Originally erected by the all-powerful Roger de Montgomery, all that now remains of the feudal castle is a Norman gateway, two massive drum-towers of the Edwardian keep, and some remnants of the inner ward or bailey. So long ago as Henry the Eighth's time, John Leland found the fortress 'nowe much in mine,' and although its ancient walls were furbished up, and a garrison put in charge to hold the place for King Charles, it was delivered by treachery into the hands of the Parliamentarian forces, and so escaped demolition. Turning up-hill into Castle Gates, we espy a flight of steps leading to a sort of raised passage, called the Dana, whence the visitor, if so minded, may survey a large portion of Shropshire. Returning now to Castle Gates, we bend our steps towards a dignified-looking pile of grey stone buildings, standing a little back from the roadway. This is the Free Library and Museum, a building that for some three centuries did duty as the Grammar School of Shrewsbury; a school founded by King Edward the Sixth, enlarged by Queen Elizabeth, and numbering among its masters men like Dr. Samuel Butler and Kennedy of Cambridge, and made famous by such scholars as Philip Sidney, Fulk Greville and Darwin, not to mention in the same breath the execrable name of Judge Jeffreys. Before the entrance gateway, which is adorned with the effigies of two scholars in quaint Jacobean costume, stands the recently erected bronze statue of Charles Darwin, the world-renowned scientist, an alumnus, and a native of Shrewsbury. The interior of the building proves quite in keeping with what the outside would lead one to expect, for the low-ceiled rooms, with their dark oaken panelling and doors carved with the names of long-forgotten schoolboys, seem redolent of scholarly ways; and these studious traditions are in some sense maintained by the purposes which these quiet chambers now serve. Once more we steer a diagonal course athwart steep, crowded Castle Street, and, rounding the end of a modern chapel, find ourselves immediately vis-à-vis the object of our search. An ancient archway, surmounted by a pair of timbered gablets, admits us to a small paved courtyard, around three sides of which extends a group of buildings, which in bygone days formed the Council House, and occasional abode of no less a personage than the Lord President of the Council of the Marches of Wales. Many a stately ceremony has doubtless graced these venerable precincts, which still impress the visitor with their look of faded dignity, though fallen in these latter days from their honourable estate, and converted to the purposes of private dwelling-houses. [Illustration: OLD COUNCIL-HOUSE SHREWSBURY.] The picturesque Gate House, however, which figures in our sketch may very well have witnessed that memorable incident in Shrewsbury's corporate history, when the sturdy burgesses refused Charles the First's offer (while staying at the Council House in 1642) to create their town a city, an occasion that earned for them ever after the title of 'Proud Salopians.' This fine old Gate House has been but little altered, and bears upon its ancient timbers the date A.D. 1620. An old hall to the rear still retains its original oak panelling and chimney-piece, charged with fantastic devices, and dated 1634; while an upper chamber contains a massive oak tester-bedstead, whose richly carved top is supported by moulded pillars. Pushing onward past Plimmer's, formerly Palin's, home of the famous cake-compounder whose praises have been sung by Thomas Ingoldsby Esq., we come to the trim façade of the Raven Hotel, a commodious hostelry whose fame goes back far into the old coaching days. Then, espying a lofty steeple peering over the nearer housetops, we cross the head of the lane by which Cromwell's men made their way into the town, and enter the little green close where stands St. Mary's Church. Built of mellow-hued, weatherworn sandstone, St. Mary's proves to be a noble cruciform edifice, with an early south porch and parvise, and one of the finest spires in all England. The interior, too, presents a charming diversity, from the variety of architectural styles employed, and is spanned by a panelled oaken ceiling richly and beautifully wrought; while the spacious 'Jesse' window in the chancel, brought from old Grey Friars monastery, affords a combination of sweetness and light truly pleasant to behold. Indeed, the ancient glass in St. Mary's Church forms quite a feature of the building; and amidst its quaint imagery St. Bernard may be detected in the act of sweeping the excommunicated flies out of church, and a representation of the Last Judgment with Satan figuring as a blue boar! Amongst other interesting monuments of greater or less antiquity, we notice a memorial to that skilled and daring seaman Admiral Benbow, a renowned Salopian hero, and 'true patterne of English courage,' who died at Jamaica from honourable wounds in 1702. Beneath the shadow of St. Mary's Church nestles a group of lowly almshouses, a charity established some time prior to 1648. Yonder ancient half-timbered gable, overlooking the churchyard, is the erstwhile Hall of the Drapers' Guild, where, upon passing within, we find ourselves in a spacious, low-ceiled chamber, entirely wainscoted with oak, and having massive oak tables, benches and lockers, coeval with the room. Upon the wall hangs a dark old panel-picture, commonly supposed to be the portrait of Degory Watur, the founder, and his lady wife, who, it is recorded, used to attend with the ministers 'dailye in Our Ladye's Churche, and kneele with them in a long Pewe, in the guise made for them and himselfe.' And the old bedesman who does the honours also displays one or two ancient charters connected with the foundation, which are jealously preserved here under lock and key. Passing on to Pride Hill--so named from a local family of that ilk who lived in a mansion hard by--we presently descry a narrow thoroughfare, looking for all the world like a bit of some mediæval city. This is Butcher Row, a quaint, old-time byway, whose ancient timbered houses lean this way or that, in sociable good-fellowship, above the little shops that flank the lane. A sketch of Butcher Row forms the frontispiece to this volume. 'There they stand, crowding together, with overhanging gables, queer dormer windows, and panelled fronts; a curious chequer-work, wherein the broad black lines are displayed upright, horizontal and diagonal, with varied artifice. And here and there a bracket catches the eye, or a pent-house roof and railed recesses, and breadths of ornament on fascia and cornice. The ground-floors recede, and shops are gloomy, and ceilings low; and upstairs you find the same want of height and breadth of window, by which the olden time contrived to favour at once the picturesque, and the plague.' Far aloft soars the graceful spire of St. Alkmond's Church, ('Stalkmun's,' in the vernacular), the nave whereof was pulled down in a panic a century ago, after its neighbour St. Chad's had fallen, and rebuilt in the contemptible 'style' of that period. 'In the yere 1533,' as an old chronicler tells, 'uppon Twelffe daye, in Shrowsburie, the Dyvyll appearyd in Saint Alkmond's churche there, when the preest was at High Masse, with great tempeste and Darknesse, soe that as he passyd through, he mountyd upp the Steeple in the sayd churche, tering the wyers of the clocke, and put the prynt of his Clawes uppon the 4th Bell, and tooke one of the pynnacles awaye with hym, and for the Tyme stayde all the Bells in the churches within the sayde Towne, that they could neyther toll nor ringe.' The corner building at the farther end of Butcher Row is an excellent example of a mediæval town-house; and the beautiful though sadly defaced carvings about its door-jambs, windows and gables, are as good as they are rare of their kind. There is reason to suppose the Abbots of Lilleshall made this their city abode, and that the chantry priests of the Holy Cross found shelter in its ancient chambers. Be that as it may, we now direct our steps towards a mere slit of a passage, aptly designated Grope Lane; getting a passing peep of Fish Street, and its quaint inn-sign the Three Fishes, the cognizance of the Abbots of Lilleshall, with St. Julian's Church-tower beyond. A queer nook indeed is this Grope Lane, just such an one as might have inspired the author of 'A Legend of the Dark Entry'; so narrow that one may easily touch both sides at once, and so closely overhung by the rafters of the adjacent premises that but a strip of sky is seen. Having weathered the intricacies of Grope Lane we enter High Street, and turn right-about to look at the quaint old half-timbered buildings by which it is flanked--small but very characteristic specimens of old Salopian house-fronts, with their quatrefoil panels, twisted pilasters, and grotesquely carved heads. Close at hand is High Street Church, a chapel originally erected in the days of the Act of Uniformity, and noteworthy from the fact that for a brief space of time Samuel Coleridge, the celebrated author of the 'Ancient Mariner,' ministered therein. Strolling along High Street, we soon pass the entrance to The Square, giving a passing glance at the old Market House that rises so picturesquely there--whereof more anon,--and pausing beneath Clive's statue to scan the determined features and stalwart bearing of that renowned Salopian. Then we turn our attention to a group of Fine old black-and-white gables that rise upon the opposite side of the street, the doorway of one handsome façade bearing the inscription, ERECTED BY RICHARD OWEN THE ELDER, GENTELMAN, ANO. DM. 1592. Few towns in the kingdom can boast such stately survivals as these; yet a few yards away appears a still more striking specimen of the mediæval builder's art. Originally the town-house of the Irelands, this noble old fabric is still known by their name, and bears upon its ancient front the family cognizance. Four storeys high it rears its chequered walls, topped by tall, beetling gables, and broken into play of light and shade by ranges of oriel windows. Bits of quaint carving are seen here and there upon bargeboard, lintel and bracket, for the old place has happily suffered but little from modern innovations. The nicely restored black-and-white front of Lloyd's Bank hard by keeps its venerable neighbour well in countenance. [Illustration: Remains of Bennett's Hall] Finding ourselves once more on Pride Hill, we step across that busy thoroughfare, and, passing to the rear of Mother Noblett's Toffee Shop, with its huge, comical signboard, we see before us the pretty Gothic doorway that figures in our sketch. Though much the worse for neglect, and fallen sadly into disrepair, this ancient sandstone structure is clearly the work of at least two periods. The shaft and capital on the left, with the broken archway above it, are of the style known as Early English; while the graceful pointed arch, with its floreated cusps and traces of ball-flower ornamentation, are evidently a later insertion, and probably date from the latter part of the thirteenth century. A wide stone arch, part of which may be noticed above the passage-way, supports the floor of the room within; and a small arched recess, near the head of the steps, appears to have been used as a holy-water stoup. From these indications it is considered probable the little building before us was at one time the private chapel of Bennett's Hall, the city residence of the Abbot of Haughmond, who, according to the custom of those days, had a town-house in the capital of the county. Portions of ancient domestic buildings may be traced at the back of the chapel, including the stonework of a good-sized hall, and some indications of a large window. There is a tradition that these buildings were at one time used as a mint; and the fact that a kind of oven, or hearth, formerly existed here gives colour to the story. [Illustration: A Byeway in Old Shrewsbury.] Laying a course towards the tall clock-tower of the new Market Hall, we now descend Pride Hill and turn to the right into Mardol, a steep, oldfashioned street, boasting several half-timbered house-fronts dating as far back as the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. About half-way down we strike into a byway called Hill's Lane, at the corner whereof rises an ancient frontage whose oaken beams display the date 1440. This narrow lane, zig-zagging through one of the oldest quarters of the town, is frequented on market-days by country folk, when the mother-tongue of old Salopia may be heard in all its pristine purity. After passing one or two oldfashioned inns of the humbler sort, we stumble unexpectedly upon a lordly dwelling, standing somewhat aloof from its dingy neighbours, and presenting an air of dilapidated gentility, like an out-at-elbows aristocrat making shift to maintain his dignity amidst a crowd of tatterdemalions. Built of dark-red brick, with stone mullions, quoins and copings, this fine old Tudor mansion is believed to have been erected by one William Rowley, draper, and sometime alderman of Shrewsbury, about the beginning of the seventeenth century, and is still called Rowley's Mansion. Sad it is to see the woful plight into which the stately old fabric has fallen, the beautiful porch that once adorned its entrance torn away and destroyed, its mullioned windows yawning wide to wind and rain, and each delicately-traceried ceiling thrown down, or utterly defaced. By strolling into the yard of the old Ship Inn, we get another glimpse of Rowley's mansion; its soaring gables and chimney stacks grouping picturesquely, from this point, with the meaner outhouses and dwellings by which it is surrounded. [Illustration: Old Market House Shrewsbury.] We next thread our way through several rather intricate lanes, until, crossing Mardol Head, we soon find ourselves once more in The Square, the very heart of this ancient city. Here the old Market House at once claims our attention; a venerable sandstone structure supported, as our sketch will show, upon a series of semicircular arches, and buttressed at the angles. Overhead its time-stained walls are pierced with mullioned windows, and relieved against the skyline by quaint, fantastic battlements. That clock aloft in the gable is _said_ to occupy the place of the one Falstaff referred to when declaring that, against tremendous odds, he had 'fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.' Be that as it may, we are on surer ground when considering the figure in the canopied niche below; for an inscribed panel alongside announces that 'This statue was removed by order of the Mayor from the tower on the Welsh Bridge in the year 1791.' The effigy, that of a knight in full armour, has a stiff, archaic appearance, and is usually supposed to represent Edward IV., father of Richard, Duke of York. Below this figure, in antiquated characters, are the words: THE XV DAY OF IUNE WAS THIS BUYLDING BEGONN, WM JONES AND THOS. CHARLTON GENT. THEN BAYLIFFES, AND WAS ERECTED AND COVERED IN THEIR TIME. The opposite gable has a similar niche, with the figure of an angel bearing a shield charged with the Arms of England and France, and a half-obliterated sundial. A richly carved canopy upon the western front encloses the arms of Queen Elizabeth, and the date of the erection of the building, 1596. Over against the old Market House, on the eastern side of The Square, rises an ancient timbered dwelling which goes by the name of Lloyd's House. Its rugged beams are curiously carved; grotesque faces leer upon the passer-by from finial and bracket; and the builder's initials are ingeniously interwoven amidst the ornamentation of the weatherworn bargeboard. Glancing backwards from the adjacent lane, we notice how the nodding gables and chimneys of Lloyd's mansion, one end of the old Market House, and a good eighteenth-century building beyond, combine to form a characteristic street scene. Then we push onwards again in search of other quarry. Traversing a disused cemetery, we come to the Lady Chapel, and only relic, of old St. Chad's, a venerable church which collapsed suddenly in 1788, after surviving the changes and chances of time, it is said, for over a thousand years. An odd little alley now beguiles our footsteps, where an oldfashioned inn, its prominent signboard overtopped by St. Julian's church-tower, appears as set in a frame beneath an ancient archway. Thence we turn to the right, and pass a handsome new building on the site of Shearmen's Hall, an ancient foundation that in its time had played many parts, as a theatre, a chapel, a warehouse and a shop! Thus we enter Wyle Cop,--how runs the verse? 'They hew, and they hack, and they chop; And, to finish the whole, they stick up a pole, In the place that's still called the Wylde Coppe, And they pop Your grim, gory head on the top!' Several attractive-looking old structures confront us as we descend the steep pavement, prominent amongst them the ancient abode that figures upon page 15. This picturesque façade, with its blackened timbers and pretty traceried window adorned by coats of arms, has an added interest from the fact that it is 'Ye auncient house in which King Henry the VII loged, when he went to Bosworth Field, Augst 1485.' So at least the panel beneath the window has it, though Henry, of course, was but Harry of Richmond until that fateful battle had won for him the crown. [Illustration: Old Houses in Wyle Cop. Shrewsbury.] While exploring the vicinity of Wyle Cop, many another bit of old Shrewsbury is brought to light, notably the nicely restored frontage of the Unicorn Hotel; and, hidden away amidst some poor cottages by Severn side, a few scanty relics of Grey Friars' monastery, in its time one of the stateliest religious houses in Shrewsbury. Thenceforward we hug the river brink until, coming to the English Bridge, we traverse it, and find ourselves in the broad thoroughfare called Abbey Foregate-- 'A long greate streate, well buildid, large and faire, In as good Ayre as may be wisht with wit; Where Abbey stands, and is such ringe of Belles, As is not found from London unto Welles.' These lines by Churchyard, the old Shropshire poet, still hold good in the main, though railway encroachments have much to answer for. But the pièce de résistance is happily still there, and the ruddy, timeworn tower of the Abbey Church now rises before us, while its mellow-toned bells speak for themselves, pealing out a quaint, merry chime upon the springlike air as we draw near. Originally amongst the noblest and wealthiest Abbeys of the Benedictine order in England, this venerable edifice remains to this day one of the few ancient religious houses in everyday use as a parish church. It was founded by no less a personage than Roger de Montgomery, William the Conqueror's kinsman and vicegerent in the Welsh March-lands; who, life's fitful fever ended, lies buried here in his own Abbey Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Earl Roger's foundation was probably cruciform in shape, and the central portion of the church is part of the original fabric, displaying the thick, massive pillars and rounded arches, characteristic of the Norman period. In pleasant contrast with their rude simplicity rises a group of gracefully proportioned, pointed arches of a later date; while the tall, slender traceries of the Perpendicular windows, lend a certain air of lightness to the whole. A flat oaken ceiling spans the lofty interior, which cannot fail to impress every beholder by its air of spacious and reposeful dignity. In the south aisle we notice a recumbent and much defaced stone effigy, which, according to a brass plate upon the adjacent wall, represents 'Sir Roger de Montgomery, Second in command of the army of his kinsman, William the Conqueror, at the Battle of Hastings, the First of the Family of Montgomery in England. He was advanced to high honour as the Over-lord of many counties, and created Earl of Shrewsbury. He founded this church and abbey, wherein he, as a Brother of the Benedictine Order, died the 1st of August, MXCV.' The monuments in the Abbey Church will reward a close examination. [Illustration: Ancient Pulpit in Shrewsbury.] In the course of a walk around the outside of the church, we remark the noble proportions of the great west window, surmounted by a canopied niche, with its mailed figure reputed to represent King Edward III., a picturesque two-storied north porch, and the lofty walls of Mr. Pearson's new chancel. Thence we pass across the street, where, a pathetic object amidst such grimy environments, stands the ancient stone pulpit shown in our sketch, in the midst of a railway coal-yard! This graceful structure dates from the early part of the fourteenth century, and its cusped and richly moulded arches are charming examples of Decorated work. The panels below are adorned with delicately sculptured figures representing St. Peter, St. Paul, and other saints; while the groined ceiling inside the arches is crowned by a large carved boss, or keystone, emblematical of the Crucifixion. Very picturesque looks this gem of Gothic art, its grey old stones scored and wrinkled by the tooth of Time, whose ravages are but partially concealed by a mantle of fresh green ivy. At one time the Abbey precincts appear to have extended far and wide in this direction, but the exigencies of modern travel and traffic have played sad havoc with the old, monkish habitation. This beautiful pulpit is the last remnant of the old monastic buildings, that once nestled beneath the adjacent Abbey Church. It was attached to the refectory, and was doubtless intended for the use of the monk whose duty it was to read to the brethren at meal-times. Its other side gave upon the courtyard of the monastery, and we may suppose that open-air sermons were occasionally delivered from it. Our sketch completed, we now turn aside from Abbey 'Forrit,' to visit the large red sandstone mansion, paradoxically dubbed 'Whitehall.' It is recorded that Richard Prince, its builder, commenced the erection of his house in the year of grace 1578, but that it was not completed until 1582, 'soe was it iiij yeares in buyldinge, to hys greate chardge, with fame to hym and hys posteritie for ever.' Prince's 'fame' in the matter is somewhat discounted, however, by the fact that he built his dwelling with stones torn from the fabric of the ancient Abbey, then but lately disestablished; and, in order to disguise them, caused the walls to be whitewashed, which gave rise to its name of Whitehall. The building is a very fine specimen of an Elizabethan mansion, with mullioned windows, high-peaked gables, and the tall, detached chimney-stacks one knows so well. The gatehouse and dovecot are interesting features, and the lawn at the rear of the mansion is overshadowed by a magnificent walnut tree, as old, we should suppose, as Whitehall itself. We now push on to St. Giles's Church, turning aside to climb to the summit of Lord Hill's Column, and enjoy the wide and varied prospect over hill and dale, town and river, that its balcony affords. St. Giles's is considered to be one of the oldest churches in Shrewsbury; yet, owing to repeated restoration--'a name that,' as has been well said, 'covers more sins than charity itself,'--a casual observer might easily mistake it for a brand-new edifice. The church owes its foundation, we believe, to King Henry I., who established here a hospital or asylum for lepers, of whom St. Giles was regarded as the special patron. A Norman doorway admits us to the interior, which, though rigorously swept and garnished, still retains one or two of its original windows filled with scraps of ancient stained glass, and a richly moulded archway of rather later date. Out in the churchyard stands a curious octagonal stone, with a good-sized square recess, several inches deep, in its upper side. It is known as the Pest Basin, and dates from the days when the plague was raging in Shrewsbury, during the seventeenth century. The custom was for the townsfolk to cast their money into the water in this basin, whence it was taken out by the country people in payment for the 'loaves and fishes' they supplied, thus avoiding in some sort the risk of actual contagion. One of the tombstones here is inscribed with the following laconic legend: 'Here Charles Rathbon hee doth lie And by misfortun hee did dye On the 17th of July--1751.' Through the quiet of the gloaming we now wend our way townwards again, the roofs and steeples of old Shrewsbury showing darkly silhouetted against the golden west as we cross the English Bridge. Thereafter, over a pipe in the chimney-nook of our hostelry, we fall to 'babbling o' green fields' and poring over Ordnance maps, intending on the morrow's morn to quit these scenes of our 'daily walks and ancient neighbourhood,' and fare forth into the open country. [Illustration: Old Windmill at Lyth Hill.] FROM SHREWSBURY TO PITCHFORD, ACTON BURNELL, AND CHURCH STRETTON. A silvery mackerel sky, serene and calm, gives promise of a bright Spring day, as, drawn by the iron horse, we spin along betwixt fields and hedgerows en route for Dorrington Station. Half-way out we skirt the wooded slopes of Lythwood, once upon a time a royal forest, whence Henry the Third permitted the Hospitallers of St. Giles's to draw wood for their firing. Presently the gently-flowing river Cound is seen, travelling Severn-wards through a pleasant, agricultural country; and then, detraining at the next station, we shoulder our knapsacks and trudge away in the direction of Stapleton. Old hawthorn hedges fling their scented sprays athwart the dusty highway, and the verdant wheat-fields beyond them are fringed with feathery cow's-parsley, looking for all the world like green carpets edged with white lace. The oaks are beating the ash trees this Spring in their race for precedence, and in yonder grounds a copper beech rears its magnificent purple dome against the deep blue of the sky--a sight for sair e'en! [Illustration: Stapleton Church] Arrived at Stapleton church, we notice that it appears to consist of two separate and distinct churches, the one superposed upon the other; the two having been at some past time united by removing the floor of the upper one, giving to the interior somewhat the appearance of a college chapel. The lower portion of the fabric, with its thick, massive walls and curiously narrow windows, mere loops, appears to be of early Norman date; while the plain lancet lights above might belong to the early part of the thirteenth century. On the south side of the chancel is a pair of two-light windows filled with simple tracery, and between them is seen the door that formerly gave entrance to the upper church. Near to the latter is an arched recess, which it has been conjectured was originally a nativity grotto. Farther east upon the same wall rises the pretty sedilia, surmounted by the double cusped arch seen on the right in the adjoining view. There are little trefoil lights under these arches, but they are later insertions. Upon the pulpit hangs an antipendium, worked in gold and silver thread with a beautiful scrolly pattern, which, if we are to credit the local tradition, was wrought by the hands of Mary, Queen of Scots. An Easter sepulchre, invisible in our sketch, is in the wall beyond; and the two tall processional candlesticks on either side the altar are exotics here, having been brought, it is said, from Nuremberg, in Germany. They are excellent specimens of Gothic wood-carving, and are richly coloured and gilt. Returning into the highroad, we follow it for about a mile, and then strike away to the right through leafy by-lanes that land us eventually at Condover, a pleasant, rural-looking village, almost encircled by the waters of the little river Cound. Near the entrance to the village stands a very ancient dwelling-house, built after the manner of a ship turned keel upwards; the huge oak beams that support both walls and roof curving upwards from the ground, and passing through both storeys to meet at the ridge-pole. Presently we come to the parish church, a large stone edifice surrounded by luxuriant foliage, and espy, hard by the churchyard wicket, an old derelict font doing duty as a flower-vase. The transepts are evidently of Norman date; while the nave and the fine west tower, though they look considerably older, were built no longer ago than the middle of the seventeenth century. [Illustration: Condover Hall. Shropshire.] From the church we pass on to Condover Hall, a noble structure of the Elizabethan period, situated on the outskirts of the village. Viewed through the tall entrance gateway, the old mansion, with its picturesque gables, stone-mullioned windows and clustered chimney-stacks, presents a delightfully old-world appearance, which is enhanced by the quaintly clipped shrubs flanking the broad carriage-drive. The west front, shown in a neighbouring sketch, overlooks a wide tract of park land, studded with gnarled hawthorns and ancient oaks, and watered by the meanderings of the stream whence the place derives its name. The estate of Condover having been originally purchased by his father, Thomas of that ilk, Sir Roger Owen, in the year 1598, erected the existing mansion; calling in master Walter Hancocke, a celebrated craftsman of that period, to assist in planning his residence. Condover passed in after years to the Cholmondeleys, an ancient family in whose hands the estate continued for many generations, having only recently been disposed of, and its interesting treasures dispersed. [Illustration: Pitchford Hall] We now push on for Pitchford, striking the main road at a place called Cantlop Cross, and following it until we get a glimpse of the old mansion itself, seated on a verdant slope amidst masses of shadowy foliage. A winding pathway, overarched by beech trees and ancestral oaks, meanders through the park, and leads us down to a low stone bridge, where we pause awhile to enjoy the charming view of Pitchford Hall, which our artist has portrayed. Built by William Ottley, Sheriff of Shropshire, in the early part of the seventeenth century, Pitchford Hall remains a beautiful and interesting example of an old English homestead of that period. Nothing can exceed the picturesqueness of this venerable house, its weather-stained walls chequered by oaken timbers, its solid stone-tiled roofs carpeted with lichens and moss, and surmounted by huge crumbling chimney-stacks of curious design. Embosomed amidst tall trees and luxuriant shrubberies, with a lordly peacock taking the air upon the sunny terrace, and a clear stream whimpling along at our feet, the scene is one to be remembered; such an one, indeed, as this rural England of ours alone can shew. But let us take a nearer look at the old Hall. The building, after the custom then in vogue, is fashioned like a capital E, the shorter member being represented by a central gable of very unusual appearance, containing a curious clock. By the courtesy of Lieut.-Colonel Cotes, the present proprietor, we are enabled to examine the interesting features of the interior, which contains some notable ancestral portraits, and a singular sort of picture-map showing the Hall and grounds as they existed in 1682. In one wainscoted chamber our attention is directed to a secret closet, or hidie-hole, ingeniously disguised by a sliding panel very difficult to detect; indeed, every corner of the mansion has its interest for the antiquary. After having been the seat of the Ottley family for considerably more than three centuries, Pitchford Hall passed in the year 1807 into the possession of the late Lord Liverpool, who had the honour of entertaining Her Majesty here when, as Princess Victoria, she visited in this locality with the Duchess of Kent, in the year of the great Reform Bill. [Illustration: The House in the Tree Pitchford] Before taking leave of Pitchford, we pass out into the grounds to visit the so-called House in the Tree. As shewn in the picture here, this consists of a small chamber, about 9 or 10 feet square, and covered with a peaked roof--not much in itself, yet curious from the fact that it is built, high and dry, aloft in the fork of a huge old storm-rent lime tree, and is approached by a crooked flight of steps. Tradition avers that a 'house' has existed in this tree any time these two centuries past, having been formerly used as a dwelling; and the broken stump of more than one huge limb shews how severe have been the gales this venerable lime tree has weathered. Upon a slight eminence hard by the mansion rises Pitchford church, a plain, simple structure, evidently of great antiquity. Built into its southern wall we notice a rude stone slab, apparently older than the church itself, with a raised cross enclosed by a circle cut in low relief upon its surface. An otherwise ordinary-looking interior is relieved by the handsome, recumbent effigy, of which a sketch will be found on p. 41. This remarkable monument is entirely composed of oak, black and smooth as ebony from lapse of time. The figure, some 7 feet in length, is that of a Crusader, habited in chain-mail, the hands clasping a sword, and the spurred feet resting upon a couchant dog, or talbot. Upon the base of the structure are seven trefoil arches, enclosing shields charged with armorial bearings, all excellently wrought, and in a good state of preservation. From its general character there can be no doubt this monument is of very early date; indeed it is supposed to represent Sir Ralph de Pitchford, who died in 1252. Retracing our steps to the bridge, let us turn aside there for a moment to look at the ancient Pitch Well, a feature probably unique of its kind, whence the adjacent Hall derives its name. The Well proves to be a largish shallow affair of an oval shape, and about 2 feet in depth, while the surface of the well (which is almost dried up this drouthy season) has little 'pockets' of semi-liquid pitch, oozing up from below and partially caked on the top. This bituminous spring appears, indeed, to have altered but little since Marmaduke Rawdon visited the spot, during a tour in the seventeenth century. 'Thir is in this Well,' he observes, 'foure littel Hooles about a halfe yard diep, out of whiche comes lyttle lumpes of Pitche, but that which is att ye tope of ye Well is softish, and swimes uppon the water like Tarr, butt being skym'd together itt incorporateth, and is knead together like untoo soft wax, and becometh harde.' Sketches completed, we now make for the village, and pace on through the quiet, weedgrown street, where the martins are nesting under the lee of the old stone-tiled roofs, and the still, sunny air is redolent of lilac and early honeysuckle. Yonder gable-end with its rough yellow plasterwork, Venetian shutters, and mantle of purple wistaria, greets the eye with a pleasant scheme of colour, calling up visions of far-away Italy. Thus we take the road again, until, coming to a green, grassy lane--part of the ancient Watling Street--we proceed to follow it up. At a point where the lane crosses a streamlet between hollow, sandy banks, we find unmistakable traces of a very ancient stone bridge, which, though undermined by rabbit burrows and damaged by tangled roots and brushwood, still shews the springing of a massive arch, apparently of semicircular form, while tumbled blocks of mossy sandstone cumber the stream below. 'Yo' mun tek along yonder bonky piece till yo' come to th' foredraught, and then foller it all the way; but 'tis a terr'ble weedy road,' says a country lad of whom we ask a direction. So away we go once more, with the blackbirds and thrushes warbling in every hedgerow; until ere long the homely house-roofs of Acton Burnell come in sight, backed by the rolling woodlands of the park, which spreads away in gentle undulations up the slopes of a neighbouring hill. [Illustration: Acton Burnell.] A pretty, rustic spot is Acton Burnell, its comely thatched cottages, half submerged amidst oldfashioned country flowers, extending crosswise along the lanes, and never an inn to be found in all the place! Yet, despite its present bucolic aspect, Acton Burnell has figured in the annals of English history, as we shall presently see; so let us now go in search of records of those far-away times. After passing the cosy-looking rectory, with its cedar trees and sweet-smelling lilac, we soon come to the church, a beautiful structure replete with interest to the lover of old-world scenes; for Acton Burnell church was built just at the time when Gothic architecture had attained its high-water mark, and, though of modest dimensions, so perfect is every detail, that the little edifice is worthy of close examination. The annexed sketch shows the fine geometrical east window, and a beautiful three-light window in the north wall of the chancel. The tower, though modern, harmonizes well with the older work beside it, and contains a peal of very sweet-toned bells: 'A nut and a kernel! Say the Bells of Acton Burnell.' There is much to be seen in the interior. Near the porch we observe an elegant font, with small, well moulded arches supporting it. Overhead is a good oak roof, though not so massive as that of the chancel. A curious feature of the latter is a small square window low down in the north wall, supposed to be a leper's, or anchorite's, window, as it appears probable that an anchorite had his dwelling here in very early times. Or may not this have been what was known as a 'dead-light,' a little window whence a light was shown into the graveyard to scare away the ghosts! Passing into the north transept, which has ancient tiles upon the floor, we are at once attracted by the very handsome and well preserved marble monument of a knight clad in rich armour, a ruff around his neck, a lion at his feet, and a quaint little figure supporting a helmet above his head. Near the right hand lies a gauntlet, and within it crouches a diminutive dog, the emblem of fidelity. Alongside the knight reposes his lady consort, her costume of ruff and stomacher, girdle and flat head-dress, bespeaking the time of Queen Elizabeth; while in the background appear their nine children, habited in the stiff, formal gear of that period. Beneath the enclosing arch are inscribed the words, 'HIC IACET CORPUS RICHARDI LEE ARMIGERI QUI OBIIT 27° DIE MAII ANNO DONI 1591.' This fine monument is carved in alabaster, and is surmounted by a knightly helmet and squirrel crest, and coats of arms with supporters. [Illustration: Nicholas de Brunell.] In the angle of the adjacent wall is another marble tomb, less elaborate than the last, but considerably older. Its arcaded sides are wrought with consummate skill, while the upper surface is inlaid with a handsome brass effigy of Nicholas de Handlo, who in the year 1360 married the heiress, and assumed the name, of the Burnell family. A glance at the sketch will show how well this fine old brass has withstood the wear and tear of more than 500 years. The knight's head is crowned by a peaked hauberk, and the soldierly face, with its long, flowing moustache, looks out from a richly cusped and crocketed canopy. A leather jerkin is worn over the tight-fitting coat of chain-mail, and a jewelled belt supports the long-handled sword and dagger. The legs are encased in greaves; and huge spurs, flexible foot-gear, and gauntlets upon the uplifted hands, complete the tale of this warrior's battle harness. A couchant lion, or griffin, keeps ward beside the feet, and upon a brass plate at the head we read the following inscription: Hic iacet diis Nichus Burnell miles dus De holgot qui obiit xixo die Januarii Anno Dni Mmo CECmo Lxxxiio Cui aie ppiciet ds am. We have by no means exhausted the attractions of this interesting interior, but, to make a long story short, will merely remark, en passant, there are numerous objects worthy of note in other parts of the church. A stone's throw distant from the sacred edifice, overshadowed by stately trees, rise the ivy-mantled walls and turrets of Acton Burnell Castle, originally founded by Sir Robert Burnell, sometime chaplain and private secretary to Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward I. It is recorded that in the year 1284 Burnell received the royal license to crenellate his castle at Acton, and the picturesque ruin now before us is a work of that period. The castle stands four-square, its length from east to west somewhat greater than the width, a slender turret rising at either corner. The moat is conspicuous by its absence, which goes to confirm the theory that Acton Burnell was rather an early embattled mansion, like its neighbour of Stokesay, than a military castle of the usual mediæval type. These massive old ruddy-grey sandstone walls are pierced with mullioned windows, whose vacant cavities still retain fragments of geometrical tracery; while a pathetic-looking wooden turret, in the last stages of decay, peeps out from the mantle of ivy that envelopes the western front. One or two noble old cedar trees, rising close at hand, fling their cool, dappled shadows athwart the level greensward; and beyond them we catch a glimpse of richly timbered park land. Out there beneath a clump of elms, where the rooks are making merry, certain fragments of grey crumbling stonework are seen, so thither we now bend our steps. These prove to be two lofty massive gables of early Edwardian, or perhaps Norman, date, the last survivals of the hall of the original castle, or manor-house, of Acton Burnell. This secluded spot has become famous from the fact that here, for the first time in history, Lords and Commons sat in council, under the presidency of King Edward I., and proceeded to enact what is known as the 'Statutum de Mercatoribus,' or Statute of Acton Burnell. That took place in the year of grace 1283, just a year before Sir Robert Burnell began the erection of the later mansion, whose ruins we have just visited. So, before taking leave of the place, we call to mind that when John Leland the antiquary journeyed this way, early in the sixteenth century, he found at Acton Burnell 'a goodly manor Place, or Castel, iiii myles from Shrewsbyri, wher a Parliament was kepte in a greate Barne. It was first made,' he adds, 'by one Burnell, a Byshope.' Robert Burnell, whose name is so closely identified with this his native place, seems to have found favour in the sight of his Sovereign, for Edward I. advanced him to the see of Bath and Wells, and created his faithful liege Lord Treasurer, and Chancellor of the realm. Burnell was frequently employed by the king in affairs of state, especially in connection with the Welsh Marches; and, dying in 1292, was buried in his own cathedral of Wells. His descendants dwelt subsequently at Holgate, in Corve Dale, and the family appears to have finally died out some time in the fifteenth century. On the brow of a hill two miles away to the eastward stands the diminutive village of Kenley, the birthplace of Sir Archibald Alison, the historian, whose father was incumbent of this parish. The road thither leads past Acton Burnell Hall, a large, white, stone-built mansion, vastly fine with porticoes and pediments, such as our ancestors loved, and seated in a broad, tree-shaded park, very pleasant to behold. [Illustration: Kenley Church.] The little church of Kenley is ancient and interesting, having an aisle-less nave, south porch, and broad, low, western tower, with walls thick enough for a fortress, and narrow, deeply-splayed loops by way of windows. The lofty old pulpit, with its sounding-board and curiously carved oak panels, is a pretty feature of the interior; and the chancel window, we notice, is of rather uncommon character, having elegant flowing tracery, and minute sculptured heads outside at the springings of the hoodmould. Out in the churchyard grows a gnarled old yew tree of immense girth; and from beneath its sombre branches we obtain a glorious prospect over a wide stretch of picturesque, broken country towards the west, with many a familiar Salopian height belted with woods and pastures, and the wild Welsh hills, cloud-capped and blue, rising far away beyond all. Returning to Acton Burnell, we now put the best foot foremost, and push on again in a southerly direction through a hilly-and-daley country. Just outside the village our attention is arrested by a pair of patriarchal oaks rising close beside the roadway, excellent specimens of the 'Shropshire weed,' which, the rustics will tell you, date from just after the Deluge! Anon we coast beside a belt of woodland all flushed with the shimmery blue of wild hyacinths; and then pause at the crest of the bank for a glance at the distant hills, and the steeples of Salop rising from the vale beneath. [Illustration: The Old Gate House. Langley. Deserted Chapel at Langley, Shropshire.] A turn to the left, and yonder is Langley Chapel, standing ruinous and deserted in the midst of a weedgrown meadow, its weather-stained walls and broken roof presenting such a lamentable spectacle of neglect and desecration, that the very genius loci must shed tears, one would suppose, to behold its sorry plight. The exterior is simple, not to say severe, a crazy wooden bell-cot above the western gable alone relieving the skyline of the solid old stone-tiled roof, while wooden shutters, all awry, obscure the ancient windows. Even worse, if possible, is the state of affairs within; for the sacred edifice presents all the appearance of having been used as a cattle stall or sheep pen. Yet amidst all the dust, mildew and litter, a sharp eye may still discover here and there traces of better things. Opposite the door by which we enter rises the old canopied Reader's pew that figures in our sketch, its panelled roof set about with the nests of house-martins, the little denizens twittering to and fro while we sketch. And yonder beneath the broken east window are ranged the desks, tables and benches, just as they were left by the old Puritan worshippers, a curious if not unique feature of the church; while on the opposite side may be noticed some of the original seventeenth-century oak pews, with their bits of finely executed carving, quaint hinges, and nicely turned finial knobs. The date 1601, cut on one of the tie-beams of the roof, gives a clue to the age of the building. 'Scarce a myle from Acton Burnell,' says John Leland, 'standeth Langley Hall, seated very low and flat in a Parke full of woodds, the dwelling place of the Lees, whiche may well challendge to be ranged among the families that are of the better worthe and greater antiquitie in the tract.' Langley Hall is now, alas! no more, but the Gatehouse seen in our sketch conveys some idea of the appearance it must have presented. This fine old structure probably dates from about John Leland's time, and, though fallen sadly into disrepair, still delights the eye with its rough, mossy roofs, huge chimney stacks, and ancient, weather-stained gables. A tall pointed archway constructed of stone formed the approach to the original mansion; and part of an embattled wall that surrounded the demesne does duty nowadays as a cartshed. Langley was, as we have seen, for many generations the paternal abode of the Lees, a family of much repute in this locality. Richard Lee, whose handsome monument we saw in Acton Burnell church, was a scion of this house, which at a later period claimed some distinguished sons in America, Colonel Richard Lee having emigrated to that country in 1641. General Henry Lee served under Washington, and his son Robert became famous as the leader of the Confederate armies during the Civil War in America. [Illustration: Frodesley Lodge] So much, then, for Langley. Sketches completed, we now shoulder our knapsacks, and push briskly onwards again, dropping into a secluded lane that runs between low, wooded hills, in the direction of the south. Away upon the crest of the ridge to our right stands Frodesley Lodge, a singular looking pile of Tudor brickwork, with a great stone staircase running from top to bottom, and several large oak-panelled chambers. Down in the vale beyond lies Frodesley village, where Sir Herbert Edwardes, the hero of Mûltan, first saw the light, his father being rector of Frodesley at that time. The church was rebuilt in 1809, and is a fair sample of the dismal 'style' then in vogue, about the only relic of antiquity that has survived being the ancient parish register, the oldest in this county, dating from 1598. A mile or two to the westward lies Longnor, a pretty village with thatched, half-timbered cottages, rising with nonchalant irregularity beside the highway. Longnor Hall, a substantial red-brick structure, stands in the midst of a finely timbered park, in one corner whereof rises the early eighteenth-century chapel, a curious little edifice with the pigeon-hole pews of the 'churchwarden' era, and gates carefully locked lest, perchance, the lover of old things should spy out the nakedness of the land! [Illustration: Ancient Bridge on the "Devil's Causeway."] But we digress. Upon overhauling the Ordnance sheet, the name 'Devil's Causeway' whets one's curiosity, and puts one upon the qui vive for what may lie in store. Nor do we have long to wait, for, coming to a brook in the bottom of the vale, our lane is carried across it by a little round-arched stone bridge, showing unmistakable signs of antiquity. The lane, too, becomes as we proceed a veritable causeway, both it and the ancient bridge being rudely paved with large, thick, roughly squared flagstones, partly hidden beneath grass and weeds, and forming a kind of kerb above the ditch by the laneside. Tradition has it that this causeway marks the track of an old, old road, that in prehistoric times ran across country from the Watling Street, near Acton Burnell, to the Roman encampment at Nordy Bank, on the shoulder of Brown Clee Hill. Anent the origin of the bridge itself, an old countrywoman good-naturedly comes to our aid, and solves the riddle by explaining, 'It was the Devil as builded un up in one night, and when cock-crow come er dropped they stwuns down in a hurry out of's apern, and flew away to his own place.' Thus enlightened we go our ways, and, breasting the hill, come by-and-by to Chatwall, a large, antiquated farmhouse, approached through a sort of cutting in the solid limestone rock. Though ignored by the guidebooks, Chatwall is evidently a place that 'could a tale unfold,' had its old grey stones but tongues wherewith to tell it. The house, a big old structure, solidly built of timber and stone, with rough, stone shingled roof, and low-browed, mullioned windows, was for many a day the home of the Corfields, a family of distinction in these parts, whose initials appear upon the carved oak panelling, with the date 1659. The farm-kitchen inside might have served as a subject for Van Ostade, so rude and primitive it is, with its great oaken settle in the ingle nook, and mighty Jacobean table, inches thick, so constructed as to well-nigh double its length when fully extended. [Illustration: Panel at Church Preen] Through crooked byways, abloom with bluebells and gay pink campion, we now make our way to Church Preen, a tiny hamlet set in a romantic dell, 'far from the madding crowd.' Overshadowed by a gigantic yew, the little church stands as a sort of appendix to Norman Shaw's handsome, half-timbered manor-house, the residence of Mr. Sparrow, the lord of the manor. Dedicated to St. John the Baptist, this church is a singular one, being only about 12 feet wide, though as much as 70 feet in length. It has neither aisles nor transepts, and is of early character, having formerly been used by Cluniac monks as a cell or chapel to Wenlock Priory. Though plain and simple to a degree, the interior looks bright and well-cared-for, and boasts a richly carved lectern and pulpit, with the date 1641 cut upon a panel. Once more afoot, half an hour's walk through shady lanes, with scarce a cottage in sight, leads us past a large, curious-looking old farmhouse at Holt Preen, and so up the hill to Plash. [Illustration: Plash. Shropshire.] Seated upon a gentle eminence within its own walled demesne, the Manor-house of Plash is one of the most remarkable and interesting places in all this countryside. The mansion is a large, substantial brick structure, whose tall, twisted chimney stacks, and lofty mullioned windows, indicate that it was built in the days of Henry VIII. or Elizabeth, the low screen wall and ogee cupolas being additions of a later period. Inside there is a noble sixteenth-century banqueting hall, with open timbered roof, and minstrels' gallery, supported by a massive oak screen of Jacobean character, at one end; and several fine wainscoted apartments with enriched plaster ceilings. An elaborate old fireplace of _cast-iron_, dated 1574, is a noticeable feature. Altogether the old mansion remains pretty much as originally built, affording an interesting study to the antiquary. The manor of Plash, or Plaish, was held for many generations by the Sprencheaux family, the last of whom, Sir Fulk Sprencheaux, died in 1447. His portrait, and the armour worn by him, may be seen hanging upon the panelled wall in the banqueting hall at Plash. After them came the Leightons, by one of whom the existing mansion was probably erected; while a later scion of the same stock was a certain William Leighton, whose sumptuous monument we shall presently see when visiting Cardington church. But the day wanes, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at Church Stretton. So pushing merrily onwards, we call no halt this side of Cardington, our lengthening shadows bringing up the rear, and a cuckoo rehearsing his tedious lay from a solitary wych elm in the hedgerow. [Illustration: Cardington. Salop.] The village lies high on the hills, in an out-of-the-way locality, and very picturesque the old place looks as we draw near, its weatherbeaten grey church crowning a gentle rise, a group of children playing 'hide-and-seek' about the churchyard wicket, and half a dozen antiquated cottages clustering loosely around--rough old stone-built structures most of them, with moss-grown roofs, and diamond-paned windows blinking from beneath the deepset eaves. But let us step into the church. Entering beneath a seventeenth century timbered porch, its round-arched doorway and the two small Norman lights on either side the nave shew that the fabric is of ancient origin, although its more striking features date from a much later period. The panels of the oak pulpit are effectively carved, while some of the older pews bear the names of local manors, or townships, cut upon them. [Illustration: Leightons of Plashe.] In the chancel stands the rich, sumptuous monument of Sir William Leighton and his lady, with their children grouped in a panel of the substructure below. 'THIS MONUMENT WAS MADE,' as the inscription runs, 'IN THE YEAR 1607, AS A MEMORIAL TO WM LEIGHTON OF PLASHE, ESQ., OF NORTH WALES, ONE OF THE COUNCELL IN THE MARCHES OF WALES FOR ABOVE FORTIE YEARES.' Then comes the moral, 'NEMO ANTE OBITUM BEATUS.' A very quaint monument this. Curious, too, are the Bell-ringers' Laws set up on the tower wall. Bidding farewell to Cardington, we have a good half-mile of collar work before us, ere the brow of the hill is won close to a singular mass of tumbled rocks called the Sharpstones, whence the view opens out towards Wenlock Edge, with Brown Clee peeping over it. Plunging into a steep stony lane, a likely-looking field path suggests the possibility of a short cut; but, calling to mind the Spaniard's proverb, 'No hay atajo sin trabajo'--no short cut without trouble--we consult an old fellow who happens along just now. 'Yon's a weedy road,' is the best he can say for our byway, 'the medders be all-of-a-pop (boggy) down that-a-way.' [Illustration: Chalice at Hope Bowdler.] So we stick to our last, and push forwards again along the stony lane; and half an hour later find ourselves at Hope Bowdler, a lowly hamlet seated in a sheltered vale, in the lap of the Cardington hills. Passing the wheelwright's shop, with its fascinating jumble of rough timber and derelict carts, we turn through the old lich-gate and take a peep at St. Andrew's church, a poorly-restored edifice with a carved oak Jacobean pulpit, and a plain but well-proportioned silver chalice, bearing the date 1572 upon its lid. Up, up we go once more, with the hills folding in as we advance, and the curious Gaerstone rock sticking up, like a miniature Matterhorn, high above the roadway. Diverging to the right, we soon drop into a sweet secluded 'cwm' beneath the shadow of giant Caradoc, whose rugged crest fairly bristles with huge rocks, as though Titans had been playing bowls up there. Anon we are footing it athwart the open hillside, pushing through gorse and breast-high bracken, and inhaling the odours of wild thyme and the thousand scents of summer. Grandly the Longmynd bulks ahead as we descend into Stretton Dale, his massive shoulders rising purple against the amber light that still irradiates the western heavens, while the shadows of evening enfold as with dusky wings each nook and recess of the mountain. The lights of Church Stretton twinkle out through the gloom as we beat up for quarters at last, and a certain snug hostelry to which we now make our way proves a welcome haven after our long day's cross-country tramp. [Illustration: Sir Ralph of Pitchford.] STRETTON DALE AND THE LONGMYND, A VISIT TO STOKESAY CASTLE. Church Stretton is 'a pretty uplandish Townelett, the cheifest Building that is in Stretton Dale.' Thus wrote John Leland in the time of King Henry VIII., and his description holds good to-day. Lovers of Nature will congratulate themselves on the fact that the 'cheifest Building 'scarce attains the dignity of a town, which is seated in the midst of one of the most charming localities in all Shropshire, an excellent centre for anyone bent upon exploring the heather-clad hills and upland valleys by which the place is surrounded. The railway train that carries the traveller thither climbs steadily up-hill all the way from Shrewsbury, halts for breath, so to speak, at Stretton station, and then starts away upon a downward grade, following for many a mile the southward flowing streams. Lying thus high and dry, Church Stretton is one of the healthiest places imaginable, thanks to pure water, and mountain breezes fraught with an invigorating tang from their journey over leagues of gorse, heather and bracken. Right through the vale, from north to south, runs the ancient green lane still known as Watling Street, rubbing shoulders as it goes with the old winding coach-road, and with that modern parvenu the railway track. For this Stretton valley has time out of mind been the great main artery of travel for man and beast, whether faring towards the cities of the north, or journeying into South Wales. [Illustration: Church Stretton.] Church Stretton village--or should we say town?--rambles in by no means unpicturesque fashion alongside the old highroad, half way or thereabouts between Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Just off the street, at the rear of the Buck's Head Inn (formerly the manor-house of Church Stretton), stands the parish church of St. Lawrence, a fine cruciform structure shaded by noble old elms, amidst whose green foliage its venerable grey tower, adorned with the image of the patron saint, rises with charming effect. [Illustration: Church Stretton.] [Illustration] The chancel is evidently the work of Norman hands, but an archaic little image, carved above its southern door, looks like an insertion from some earlier edifice. And there are other features well worth looking at in the nicely-proportioned interior; notably a fine thirteenth century roof, some curiously carved oak panelling round about the altar, and groups of heads peering out with odd effect upon the sculptured capitals of the pillars. Bonham Norton's fine old timbered market house, built in the year 1617, has, unfortunately, been stupidly destroyed not so very long ago--'it was politics as did it' is the dark saying of an old inhabitant; and its place is now usurped by a sorry red-brick substitute of the meanest character. Though the tide of modernization has already set in here, there are still a few ancient timbered gables with lattice-paned windows shewing here and there about the village, and they appear all the more venerable, perhaps, in contrast to their spick-and-span neighbours. Overlooking Church Stretton upon its western side rise a series of tall, green, rounded hills, outposts of the broad backed Longmynd. In and between these run deep, hollow dingles, or 'gutters,' as they call them hereabouts. Such is the Carding Mill valley, by which we may climb to the crest of the ridge, whence a shrewd walker may push on to the solitary pole that marks the top of the Longmynd, some 1,700 feet above the sea. If by good fortune the day be clear, the wanderer may reckon on a widespread view from the summit of the Longmynd; tumbled blue hills shewing all around the horizon, like waves on a stormy ocean. An ancient grass-grown trackway traversing these highlands is referred to in old documents as the 'King's hie waie on Longemunde.' Wayfarers are few on these upland byways, where the hill ponies are often the only signs of life, and no sound breaks the stillness save the whirr of a startled grouse, or the plaintive pipe of the curlew; 'there the winds sweep, and the plovers cry.' [Illustration: Church Stretton & the Longmynd.] Bright and exhilarating looks the Longmynd in its summer panoply of heather and golden gorse; and picturesque in the extreme when Autumn brings the 'whim berry' gatherers, with their camp-fires and steaming kettles, and merry shouts of children. But very different is the scene when this vast, unenclosed moorland falls under the stern sway of winter, and every landmark is obliterated by a mantle of untrodden snow. At times like these the Longmynd bears an eerie name, for lives not a few have been lost in attempting to traverse its trackless wastes, and places here and there bear ominous names such as Deadman's Hollow, Devil's Mouth, Deadman's Beach, and the like. Moreover the last fair of the year, held at Church Stretton on St. Andrew's day, has acquired the title of 'Deadman's Fair,' as men returning from it have been known to perish while endeavouring to reach their homes beyond the hills through the wild, mid-winter night. A remarkable if not unprecedented experience was that which befell the Rev. Donald Carr, the present rector of Woolstaston, who was lost in the snow upon Longmynd for a night and a day, in January, 1865. * * * * * Extending our rambles somewhat farther afield, a few minutes' run by train beneath the steep, wooded slopes of Caer Caradoc, brings us to Leebotwood, the first station Shrewsbury-wards on the railway. The village itself lies a quarter of a mile away, under a smooth green hill called the Lawley, but is worth a detour for the sake of its pretty thatched cottages, with their flowery garden plots and wealth of creepers, and its quaint oldfashioned inn yclept The Pound, which bears the date 1650, and does duty also as village post-office. Past Leebotwood church, a small stone edifice overarched by umbrageous beech trees, we push on along the dusty highway, which, gradually ascending, affords fine views over the countryside, and a glimpse of a round green 'tump' called Castle Hill, a prehistoric camp keeping ward over the ancient Portway, which extends hence along the brow of the Longmynd to Billing's Ring, near Bishop's Castle. [Illustration: Woolstaston Church, and Rectory.] A turn of the road reveals the village of Woolstaston, with its diminutive church overshadowed by three gigantic yew trees, and snug timbered rectory house, home of the Rev. Donald Carr, whose marvellous adventures, when snowed up on the Longmynd, have been recorded in an interesting little work entitled 'A Night in the Snow;' adventures which seem to confirm the old adage that 'truth is stranger than fiction.' [Illustration: Font at Woolstaston.] Woolstaston church, despite its small size, is well worth a passing visit. The chancel is entered through a doorway of true pre-Norman type, its semicircular head being fashioned from one single stone, while the jambs retain the holes for a wooden cross-bar. But the most notable feature of the church is a singular pair of fonts, one standing within the other, as depicted in our sketch. Both are evidently very ancient, and of archaic simplicity, the lower and seemingly older one being supposed to have originally belonged to a chapel, long since destroyed, that stood not far from here. Woolstaston Hall, now a large farmhouse, stands near the church. It must have been a fine place in its time, if we may judge from a noble panelled parlour, with a polished oak floor fit to make young people's feet itch for a dance, and a massive stone portal, fronting upon the garden to the rear, evidently the main entrance to the mansion in its original state. In the secluded country to the north of Woolstaston one stumbles upon a bunch of out-of-the-way villages and hamlets, anent which runs the following quatrain: 'Cothercot upo' the Hill. Wilderley down i' the Dale, Churton for pretty Girls, And Powtherbatch for good Ale!' In the same quarter lies Beatchcott, a place boasting a history of its own, having been granted by Henry III. to Haughmond Abbey, an oratory being in existence here at that time. Beatchcott subsequently passed to the Ireland family, coming eventually into the possession of the Wildings, who have held the estate for over three hundred years. At Ratlinghope, a few miles away, the Black Canons of St. Augustine had a small cell, or priory, founded in John's reign, and affiliated to Wigmore Abbey. Returning from Woolstaston to Church Stretton, we pass by Womerton, where the older of the two fonts in Woolstaston church was found; and then, skirting the unenclosed uplands, we drop into the highroad at or about All Stretton. Anent these names of Stretton hangs a tale that runs somewhat as follows. King Charles II. (or was it James?), journeying one day towards Shrewsbury, came in due course to Little Stretton. 'How call you this place?' inquired the Merrie Monarch. 'Stretton, an it please your Majesty,' was the countryman's reply. '_Little_ Stretton, methinks, were a fitter name for so small a place,' said the King; and set forth again towards Shrewsbury. Upon arriving at the next village, Charles again asked where he was. 'At Stretton, sire,' someone answered. Espying the parish church, whose bells were making music in the old grey steeple, his Majesty exclaimed: 'Call it rather _Church_ Stretton,' and went his way once more. Finally the King came to All Stretton, and being again informed he was at Stretton, 'Stretton!' cried Charles in astonishment, 'why it's _All_ Stretton about here!' The story, if not absolutely true, is at least 'ben trovato.' * * * * * The road from Church Stretton to Craven Arms traverses a pleasant, smiling vale, with the Quenny brook wimpling along amidst water meadows, and broad breezy hillslopes stretching up and away beyond the rich, rolling woodlands that nestle around their flanks. A short mile out of the village we strike up an isolated knoll, whose summit is seamed with the green ramparts of Brockhurst Castle, an ancient stronghold keeping ward over the Watling Street, of whose history very little is known. Brockhurst was a royal foundation, and in Henry the Second's reign was held by Engelard de Pitchford, the famous Hubert de Burgh being Castellan in the year 1226. As early as Queen Elizabeth's time the place, it is evident, was already deserted; for Camden, writing at that period, finds there 'are still remaining the ruins of an ancient castle, called Brocard's castle, surrounded by verdant meads which anciently were fishponds.' But the site is an ideal spot for the genus picnicker, by whom its bowery nooks and secluded, fern-clad dingles are often-times frequented. On descending to the highroad, we notice the level strath where doubtless the fishponds lay. Soon afterwards we come to Little Stretton, a tranquil hamlet charmingly located in a nook of the Longmynd, over against the beautifully-wooded hill of Ragleth. The cottagers, we observe, take a curious delight in garnishing their doorways with derelict cannon-shot, which they find in the neighbouring gullies after artillery practice on the Longmynd. Blackleaded and brightly polished, they stand sentinel on either side the rustic porch; an innocent billet indeed for these truculent bullets! At the farther end of the village two humble inns, the Green Dragon and the Crown, stand vis-à-vis on either side the highway; and, in these modest hostelries, visitors may possibly identify the rival 'houses' that figure in Beatrice Harraden's story of Shropshire life, entitled 'At the Green Dragon.' Pushing on now to Marsh Brook, we turn sharp to the left at the rural post-office, and work our way up-hill to Acton Scott, a high-lying place some 700 feet above sea level--'Acton-super-Montem' it is called in ancient documents. Passing through the churchyard wicket, we pause beneath an enormous hollow yew tree to scan the rare prospect over the rolling Stretton hills, and a glimpse down the vale towards Ludlow. Of the church itself there is little to be said, save that it has a good plain old oak roodscreen; so we stroll on beneath an avenue of noble beech trees, and presently come in sight of Acton Scott Hall. [Illustration: Acton Scott Hall.] As may be seen in our sketch, the mansion is a simple, massive brick structure, with stone quoins at the angles, mullioned windows, and clustered chimney shafts; altogether a very fair specimen of an ancestral abode of the gentlefolk of a bygone period. And the place has an added interest for all local antiquaries, as the home of the late Mrs. Stackhouse-Acton, author of 'Castles and Mansions of Shropshire.' Acton Scott Hall was in all probability erected by a certain Edward Acton, who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century; and it has been noticed that the mansion bears a considerable resemblance to its contemporary, the so-called 'Whitehall' at Shrewsbury. A steep 'pitchy' lane, descending the hill past the cosy-looking vicarage, now leads us across a stretch of rough common-land, where the cottagers' geese seem disposed, more suo, to contest our right-of-way. Thence by narrow lanes draped with ferns and wild flowers we travel on to a place called Alceston, and at an elbow of the road come face-to-face with the old derelict homestead that figures below; its weather-stained roofs tufted with green mosses and house-leeks, and overshadowed by a few ragged fir trees; while the black old timbers upon its faded front are wrought into balusters and quatrefoil patterns. [Illustration: Alceston.] In its palmy days Alceston seems to have been a place of some consequence, having been built by Humphrey Hill (a connection of the Hills of Court-of-hill), who died here in 1585. The house was originally much larger, great part of it having been pulled down many years ago. Over against this ancient dwelling rises a very large and happily quite unrestored old barn, entirely constructed of oak both inside and out; a pleasing contrast to those modern monstrosities of galvanized iron, that too often stare one out of countenance amidst these rural byways. Through a pleasant, well-tended country, relieved by scraps of common-land, we win our way to Wistanstow, a comely-looking village extending along a quiet road, on the line of the ancient Watling Street. Close beside the highway rises the old grey tower of its parish church, a fine cruciform structure dating from 1180, A.D. Upon the nail-studded south nave door hangs a so-called 'sanctuary' ring, and the great wooden lock with its iron letters I.P.C.W., and date 1696. The walls of the south transept bear well-executed writings of the Creed, the Lord's Prayer and the Decalogue, of early seventeenth century date; while the north transept retains its old original oak roof. The chancel door shews the characteristic round arch and quaintly-carved capitals of the Norman style. [Illustration: Halford Church & Mill] We have now but to steer a straight course for awhile, as the Watling Street fares forward between its trim, green hedgerows. But anon we go astray once more in order to get a nearer look at Halford church, which peeps invitingly out from a leafy nook on the opposite bank of the Onny. The little church, though considerably modernized, bears traces of no mean antiquity, and with an old flour-mill down in the vale below is reflected in the stream at our feet, affording as pretty a coup d'oeil as anyone could wish to see. So having 'bagged' a sketch of this pleasant scene we take it easy awhile, lying prone amidst the clover-scented grass and the buttercups under the shade of an old pollard willow, and watching the troutlets as they rise at the silly gnats, and the swallows flashing by in the sunlight. Then, giving Craven Arms village the go-by for the present, we tramp the dusty half-mile of highroad that leads to Stokesay Castle. [Illustration: Stokesay Castle. Shropshire.] Presently the old grey-green walls and mossy roofs of castle and church come into view beyond a clump of trees upon our right, arousing great expectations of matters antiquarian; for, as Dr. Jessop truly remarks, 'when a man is bitten with a taste for old castles and earthworks, it is all over with him.' Half fortalice, half manor-house, Stokesay Castle rears its ancient turrets in the midst of a green, sylvan vale, the luxuriantly wooded heights that rise on either hand giving a sense of restful seclusion; while one or two farmsteads, nestling beneath the old ivy-mantled walls, lend a home-like air to this pleasant, rural scene. Making our way around to its south-western side, we obtain what is, perhaps, the best general view of the castle; its hoary towers and gables appearing from this point mirrored in the placid surface of a large pool, which in olden times supplied water to the moat. The venerable structure that now rises so picturesquely before us is regarded by antiquaries as an almost unique example of a thirteenth-century mansion which has been fortified at some period subsequent to the erection of the domestic portion of the buildings, thus reversing the usual order of things. Hence the tall crenellated tower that figures conspicuously in our sketch is not, as would at first sight appear, the oldest part of the castle, but was built at a later period in order to protect John de Verdon's already existing mansion, whose mossy gables and tall mullioned windows are seen farther away to the left. The curious-looking bastion beyond, with its quaint, overhanging upper story, is a remarkable feature of the edifice; its lower portion, pierced with loops for archery, being probably older than any other part of the castle, though the half-timbered gable above is a comparatively modern addition. In the background rises the low grey tower of the parish church, an interesting old edifice untouched as yet by restoration, whereof we shall see more anon. [Illustration: The Gate-House Stokesay Castle.] We now proceed to the Gatehouse, a beautiful structure of timber and plaster dating from Tudor times. Grey, worn, and weather-stained as they are, its solid old oaken timbers bid fair to outlast many a long year yet; while the huge angle corbels and the spandrils above the gateway are boldly carved with the quaint, humorous conceits of the mediæval craftsman. The story goes that in the last century this Gatehouse used to be frequented by a fugitive, outlawed in the days when forgery was a capital crime, who hid snugly away in some secret closet of the interior until the hue-and-cry was well on its way elsewhere. Let us now make our way within. A substantial oak door, nail-studded, and loopholed for the use of muskets, admits us into the courtyard; beyond whose level greensward rise the picturesque gables of the ancient Banqueting Hall, its mullioned windows flanked by massive buttresses, and surmounted with a wavy old stone-slated roof beautified by lush green mosses and splashes of golden lichen. Passing within, we find ourselves in a nobly proportioned hall, whose open-timbered roof is supported by sturdy oaken beams springing from stone corbels of elegant design. Upon either side rise lofty traceried windows; and in the floor we see the stone slab which supported the brazier, whose smoke has blackened the rafters overhead. At one end of the hall a rude sort of staircase, composed of solid oak steps, gives access to other rooms in the northern wing of the castle; and in the opposite wall is a shouldered doorway, leading to storerooms and nondescript cellars. High up in this wall are seen two tiny, shuttered lights, which give upon the Banqueting Hall from an upper chamber. To this apartment, known as the Solar, we now make our way; climbing thither by a flight of stone steps out in the open courtyard. With its magnificent carved oak mantelpiece and handsome wainscoting, the Solar must have been far and away the most sumptuous chamber in the castle, and was probably used as a kind of parlour, or withdrawing-room, for ladies, and guests of the better sort. This view is strengthened by the presence of the two 'peep-hole' windows before mentioned, whence the occupants of the Solar could, themselves unobserved, keep an eye upon the festive scenes that went forward in the Banqueting Hall below. The mantelpiece above mentioned is quite a marvel of elaborate ornamentation, of that rich, florid style, in vogue towards the close of the seventeenth century. The base of the structure, surmounting a plain stone fireplace, is effectively carved with bold, conventional foliage, and a pear pattern in the spandrils; while the upper portion is divided pilaster-wise, by grotesque figures, into panels enriched with masks surrounded by intricate strapwork. A sketch of one of these panels may be seen by turning to p. 59, where it forms a tailplate to the chapter. Both wainscoting and chimney-piece retain remnants of colour and gilding; and the chamber is lighted by traceried windows bearing a general resemblance to those of the adjoining hall. Old records tell of historical portraits at 'Stoke,' as it was then called; and we can well imagine they adorned the walls of this very apartment. Here was 'ye Picture of Charles ye Fyrst'; there, 'ye Picture of Charles ye Seconde'; and yonder, 'Theodoric Vernon, alias Vernon with ye redde Hand, alias the Proud Vernon, with a gold Chaine about hys neck with a Medall at the bottom.' What with its panelled dadoes, handsome chimney-piece, old portraits looking down from the walls, and armorial quarterings in its stained-glass windows, the Solar must have afforded a seductive retreat from the amenities of those rough times. A climb to the summit of the great tower is rewarded by a capital coup d'oeil of the castle and its pleasant environs; so now, before taking leave of this interesting spot, let us travel back for a moment into the domain of history. In the Conqueror's time 'Stoke' was held by the famous Roger de Montgomery, passing subsequently to the de Lacys, until it was bestowed by Walter of that ilk on the family of Say, whose ancestors had fought by Duke William's side at the Battle of Hastings. Having reverted to the de Lacys, the last of that line bestowed the castle upon his son-in-law, John de Verdon, who about 1240 A.D. erected the present Banqueting Hall. Half-a-century later, we find a certain Lawrence de Ludlow obtaining permission to 'crenellate his Castle at Stoke-Say,' at which time the courtyard wall, and possibly the southern tower, may have been erected. John Leland, passing this way on his 'Laborieuse Searche for England's Antiquities,' tells us, with scant regard for topographical accuracy, that 'Mr. Vernon hath a place not farre from Oney, aboot iiij miles out of Ludlo, in the waye betwixt Ludlo and Bishop Castle. Stoke-Say belongeth sometime to the Ludlo's, now the Vernons, builded like a Castell.' These were the Vernons of Haddon Hall fame, from whom Stokesay passed by purchase to the Earls of Craven. During the Civil Wars the castle was held by Sir Samuel Baldwyn, of Elsich, and was garrisoned for King Charles; but after a short investment fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, who defeated and routed a troop of Royalists, 200 strong, close to a place called Whettleton, in the meadows below Norton Camp, on the eastern side of the vale. Thereafter the castle was 'slighted,' or rendered incapable of defence. Stokesay Castle is now the property of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., by whom the old place has been put into a reasonable state of repair, and its ancient features carefully preserved. Those who care to know more about this interesting fortified Manor-house, may obtain at the Gatehouse an excellent little guidebook to Stokesay Castle by the Rev. J. D. la Touche, the late vicar of Stokesay. [Illustration: Stokesay Church.] Stokesay Church, though originally Norman, was in large measure rebuilt in the seventeenth century, as recorded upon the keystone of the tower arch, 'Ano. Dom. 1654, this church was rebuilt by the pious oversight of George Powell, Gent., and George Lambe, Churchwarden. This Arch was given by John Cheshire, Joyner.' A tie-beam of the chancel roof bears a date of ten years later. Since those times the sacred edifice has remained practically untouched, and consequently presents an appearance of rural simplicity, very grateful to look upon in these 'restoration' days. The oak pulpit, with its curious sounding-board above, and the beautiful double canopied pew in the chancel, are excellent examples of Jacobean carpentry; while some of the old high-backed pews retain their original wrought-iron hinges, and touches of carved work here and there. Recent researches have revealed, beneath the whitewash of the 'churchwarden' era, certain scriptural texts upon the walls, whose quaint, appropriate sentiment will not be lost upon the beholder. Alongside the pulpit, for example, runs the legend, 'As new born Babes desire ye Sincere milk of ye Word, that ye may grow thereby.' There, too, is the Credence, with the name 'Ponce Pilate,' after the olden fashion. A primitive west gallery partially obscures the well-proportioned Early English arch opening into the tower, which latter is broad, low and massive, and part of the original church. Outside are some very fair seventeenth-century table tombs, one of them having its fluted pillars scooped away in an unaccountable manner. Before retracing our steps towards Craven Arms, we strike up into the woods above Whettleton, in order to visit Norton Camp, an early British earthwork altered and adapted, as is supposed, by the Romans, which commands both the ancient Watling Street, and the Castle road going into Corve Dale. Its mounds are large and lofty, especially upon the western side, where the hill falls steeply to the plain, and we obtain glimpses through the twinkling foliage of far-away heights, extending fold upon fold to the horizon. Yonder rise the wild hills of Wales, their purple crests shewing clear and sharp against the glowing sunset sky; while the full moon climbs above the sombre woodlands of Corve Dale, and beams adieu to the departing lord of day. Then we plunge down through the twilight woods, and, traversing an ancient suburb paradoxically called Newton, with its fine old half-timbered mansion house, once the vicarage of Stokesay, come soon to Craven Arms, where we take up our night's lodging in one of the comfortable hotels for which the place is noted. [Illustration: Carved Panel at Stokesay Castle] FROM CRAVEN ARMS TO BISHOP'S CASTLE AND CLUN. Our general objective to-day is the broken, picturesque country lying around the quiet market towns of Bishop's Castle and Clun; an out-of-the-way, rural district, less frequented, perhaps, than any other portion of Shropshire. The Bishop's Castle railway, commencing at Craven Arms, affords the readiest means of approach to the locality. Away to the south as we jaunt leisurely along we get a glimpse of Cheney Longville, a pretty secluded hamlet hidden away amidst copses and pasture fields, with never a highroad near it. Some slight remains of the old fortified manor-house of Cheney Longville still exist, incorporated with an antiquated farmhouse containing much fine carved oak furniture. The Cheney family, whence the place derives its name, is a very ancient clan. Roger Cheney was Seneschal to Edward, Earl of Arundel, Sheriff of Shropshire in 1316. A second Roger held 'Cheney Longfield' in 1341; while yet another of the same name received license from the King, 1395 A.D., to embattle his house at Cheney Longville. After a while we join company with the little river Onny, as it meanders through a picturesquely wooded vale, getting delightful glimpses of the Longmynd as we draw near to our destination, his lower flanks dotted with old stunty oaks and ancient hawthorns, while gorse and heather brighten the foreground. Coining to Plowden station, we shoulder the knapsacks and bear away to the southward. Crossing the Onny beside a rushing weir, we get a direction for Plowden Hall from an old fellow in charge of a timber-waggon. 'You'm better tek up the rack acrass yon bonky piece, and goo through the wicket,' says our friend, 'you'll be apt to find it a gainer road than the one as goes through the 'ood.' So we breast the upland meadows, and meanwhile our gaze wanders over a goodly prospect; hill and vale, chequered by tilth and pasture-land, lying map-like at our feet, while shafts of sunlight, touching here and there, relieve the contours of a broken, wrinkled country, or bring into momentary prominence some rustic homestead surrounded by barns and haystacks. [Illustration: Plowden Hall. Shropshire.] Plowden Hall lies perdu until we are close upon it, for the old mansion nestles in a nook of the hills amidst dark, umbrageous woodlands. Its broad, somewhat low entrance front is pleasantly quaint and simple, with nothing imposing about it, though the deep-browed portico and massive hall door beneath lend a touch of character. But a better view is obtained by passing to the back of the house, whence our sketch is taken. From this point of view the ancient Manor-house rears its yellow weather-stained gables, slender chimneys and mossy roofs, against the rich dark foliage that clothes the rearward hill; while the close-cropped lawns, the trim yew hedges, and gay-coloured parterres of the oldfashioned garden in the foreground, form an appropriate setting for this beau-ideal of an old English homestead. Within the mansion one finds a congeries of wainscoted and panelled chambers, whose walls are hung with ancient tapestry, and adorned by ancestral portraits of the Plowden family. Here is Edmund Plowden, the eminent lawyer, who was 'accounted the oracle of the law,' and with whose memory is associated the saying, 'The case is altered; no priest, no mass; no mass, no violation of the law'; a saying which in course of time passed into a common proverb. On the death of his father in 1557, Edmund Plowden succeeded to the estates, and began the building of the present Hall. He was treasurer of the Hon. Society of the Middle Temple, in whose church he lies buried; and might have been Lord Chancellor under Queen Elizabeth, had he chosen to renounce the ancient Faith of his fathers. The hall, with its carved oak chimney-piece and quaint Dutch tiles, its panelled walls and oaken floors, has a sombre, dignified air about it. In one wing of the old house is the private chapel, dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi, with a portrait of the patron saint attributed to Michelangelo. Set into the wall of this chapel is a curious old brass, representing Humphrey Plowden and his seven daughters, which was brought hither years ago from Bishop's Castle church. In an adjacent corner a sliding panel gives access to a secret passage-way, by which in the Reformation days, the officiating priest might at a moment's notice effect his escape from the mansion. The whole place, indeed, is honeycombed from cellar to roof with hidie-holes, closets and secret passages, turning and twisting amidst hatchways and bulkheads, or terminating in breakneck ladders. One of these queer gangways is said to lead out to a lonely spot amidst the woods known as the Lady's Chair; and it goes without saying that the old house has earned the reputation of being haunted. One would suppose the builders of Plowden Hall had had in their minds the Spaniards' proverb: 'The rat that has only one hole is easily caught.' The Plowden family can trace, it is said, an unbroken lineage from Roger de Plowden, the Crusader, down to Edmund of that ilk, who died no longer ago than 1838, nearly 700 years. This Roger distinguished himself at the siege of Acre, in 1191; and, upon being taken prisoner by the enemy, made a vow that, if ever he returned in safety to his Shropshire home, he would build a chapel by way of thank-offering; and, as we shall see by-and-by at Lydbury North, the pious knight was as good as his word. From Edmund Plowden the estate passed to his nephew William, whose son, W. F. Plowden, Esq., is the present owner of the property. Farewell now to Plowden. Our onward way leads beneath a green avenue of oaks and beeches, whose branches, meeting overhead, cast a dappled shade athwart the lane, and afford a playground for squirrels, woodpeckers, and many another of Nature's children. Turning our backs upon the low hill where Billing's Ring keeps ward over the ancient Portway, we skirt the shoulder of Oakeley Mynd, Walcot Park with its big red-brick mansion and hanging woods shewing right ahead, with a dark clump of trees cutting against the skyline. Yonder lie Bury Ditches, a fine old British camp whose lofty crest forms a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around. Avoiding a lot of odd turnings we continue to hug the highroad, which, trending now in a due westerly direction, introduces us to a pleasant, open vale, with the tower of Lydbury church peeping out from a grove of trees in the middle of the village. Lydbury North is an ancient place, claiming some consideration. In Norman days the episcopal manor of Lydbury formed an important appanage to the Bishopric of Hereford, and the martial prelates of that period had a great stronghold in the vicinity, which, though long since dismantled and demolished, has given its name to the neighbouring town of Bishop's Castle. But Lydbury church, having remained virtually unaltered by restoration, is one of the most interesting edifices of its kind in all Shropshire. It has a nave and chancel, with north and south chapels, a timbered porch, and broad, massive tower at the western end. The primitive old clock upon the tower vaguely points the time with a solitary hand, and the roofs of the church are still covered with their original stone slabs, greatly enhancing the picturesque appearance of the ancient building. The solid nail-studded porch door bears traces of bullet marks, and has a pair of fifteenth-century hinges. The interior of the church wears an antiquated air, as of primæval repose, and appears to belong mainly to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Many of the high-backed Jacobean pews are rudely adorned with carving, as is also the oaken pulpit; while one or two of the former still have the link and staple, used in the 'good old times' when the worshippers were accustomed to lock themselves up in their pews, a habit that affords a curious insight into the everyday manners of a bygone generation. The font looks very primitive and ancient. A good fifteenth-century oak roodscreen divides nave from chancel, and above it appears the Decalogue, finely written in old English lettering of the date 1615. The block of masonry projecting from an adjacent wall was probably a 'penance stone.' Above the altar are seen two small stone brackets supporting a pair of gilded wooden candlesticks, which, according to local tradition, Archbishop Laud caused to be put there, in place of certain images that had stood upon them before. A stone tablet upon the north wall of the chancel is interesting in that it records the services of the Rev. J. Ambler, who, after being ousted from this living by the Covenanters, was reinstated at the Restoration. North and south of the nave open out two chapels, or short transepts, called respectively the Plowden Chapel, and the Walcot Chapel. The Walcots of Walcot are a family of very ancient descent, who have held estates in this locality from time immemorial. After their day, the manor of Walcot passed to the ancestors of Lord Powis, and eventually came into the possession of no less a personage than Robert Clive, Baron Plassey, K.B., founder of the British dominion in India, who died at Walcot Hall in 1774. His name may be seen inscribed in some prayer-books still preserved in this chapel. Upon the wall above the family pew hangs the Walcot escutcheon, with three black pawns, or rooks, amidst its quarterings. This is explained by the following note in a pedigree of the Walcot family, compiled in 1643, referring to a certain John Walcot who lived in the early part of the fifteenth century. 'This John Walcote, plainge at the Chese with King Henry the fift, Kinge of England, gave hym the check-matte with the Rouke; whereupon the Kinge chainged hys coate of armes, which was the crosse with flower-de-luces, and gave hym the Rouke for a remembrance thereof, by which he and hys posteritie hath continued to this daye.' The Plowden chapel is separated from the nave by a plain oak screen. As already mentioned, this chapel was built by an ancestor of the Plowdens, after returning in safety from captivity in Asia Minor. It is lighted by several well-proportioned windows of early character, and contains a much dilapidated stone altar of pre-Reformation date, with two brackets up above it, probably intended for images. In one corner stands a curious sort of grille, or iron railed structure, bearing traces of colour, and surmounted at one end by a gilded iron cross. It was customary, we understand, to place this railing around a newly made grave, to protect it from evil disposed persons. The tower walls are enormously thick, as though intended to withstand attack. The fine old panelled oak nave roof is now hidden from below by an ugly whitewashed ceiling. The bell-frame up in the belfry is something of a curiosity, being rudely but effectively carved with dragon-like monsters having foliated tails. We now make for the village inn, with appetites sharp-set for such rustic fare as the place may haply afford. Half-an-hour later finds us climbing the ascent of Oakeley Mynd, with a fresh westerly breeze humming through the tree-tops, and the cloud shadows chasing one another athwart the genial landscape. Instead of going direct to Bishop's Castle, we steer a due northerly course towards a place named Lea. By so doing we not only avoid a spell of hard highroad, but get into the bargain a rare outlook across a hilly-and-daley country, with a wisp of blue smoke trailing away upon the breeze far off on the shoulder of Longmynd. From the top of the bank, a thousand feet above sea-level, we look across a pleasant vale, where the brown roofs of Bishop's Castle are seen nestling beneath tumbled hills, outliers of Clun Forest. Then away we go down a rough footpath, or 'rack,' as they call it hereabouts; making a bee-line for our destination, and skirting the head of a deep wooded dingle known as Narrow Dale. Guided by the cheerful barking of dogs, we presently come in sight of a lonely farmstead; and, upon stepping round to the rear, descry a group of buildings all jumbled up together in the manner shewn over page. 'The remains we see,' writes Mr. W. Phillips in 'Shropshire Notes and Queries,' 'are probably the walls of the old square keep. They are built of the Wenlock limestone found in the neighbourhood, and are so well constructed that the lime is harder than the stone, so that, when an attempt was made some years ago to utilize the material, it was found to be less trouble to obtain fresh stones from the quarry. We owe it to this fact that these ruins remain to awaken our curiosity.' [Illustration: Lea Castle.] The walls of this old keep are extremely massive, and have several window and door openings in them of various dates from the fourteenth century onwards. So much has been destroyed that the original dimensions of the castle cannot now be ascertained; but the moat may still in part be traced, besides evidences of fishponds near the little rivulet that filled them. The Manor of Lea formed, in early days, the largest feudal Lordship in Shropshire held by the Bishop of Hereford. Owing to the exigences of his position, and the turbulence of those remote times, the Bishop was often called upon to relinquish the crozier for the sword, and to lead his lieges against the wild Welshmen; for, in connexion with Bishop's Castle, Lea formed an important link in the cordon of border fortresses. The tenant of Lea, indeed, appears to have been under obligation of doing suit and service at Bishop's Castle, when called upon by the constable of the latter. The old farmhouse alongside has evidently been added to and altered at various times in a very haphazard fashion. On its staircase is a piece of timber quartering ornamented with a rude shield on which appear the words anno. do. 1560, proving that the place can boast a respectable antiquity. Amidst a chorus of 'come-back! come-back!' from the galeney-fowls in the farmyard, we set out once again upon our travels. Giving preference to the meadow paths, we presently happen upon a huge block of stone, as big as a good-sized cart, lying stranded in the middle of a grass field. How it came there is the puzzle, so we take counsel with an old fellow breaking stones by the wayside, a furlong farther on. 'Oh,' says he, in reply to our questions, 'they 'ud used to tell us, when we was childern, as the Devil fell lame one day a-walkin' by here, and throwed that there old stwun out of's shoe, and then fled away up to Stiperstones yander. But that was afore my time, like, and behappen there's never a one now as can tell the rights on it.' And the country folk have a saying that the Lea Stone, as it is called, turns itself around 'every time the clock strikes thirteen.' [Illustration: Bishop's Castle. From an Old Print.] With the shadows lengthening around we draw near to Bishop's Castle, a place half town, half village, seated upon a southward sloping hill. It was always called Lydbury Castle in the olden days, on account of the castle of that name (built by the Bishops of Hereford to protect their episcopal manor of Lydbury), which stood in a commanding position at the top of the town. When Henry II. mounted the throne, Bishop's Castle was held by Hugh de Mortimer of Wigmore, but was regained for the see by the energy of Bishop Gilbert Ffoliot. In the year 1263, the castle was stormed and its constable slain by the rebellious John FitzAlan and his followers. A visitation of Bishop Swinfield, about thirty years later, was long remembered in the locality, on account of the sumptuous style in which that prelate lived; indeed his Lordship and his retinue seem to have 'eaten the good people out of house and home,' as the saying goes. [Illustration: BISHOPS CASTLE.] Bishop's Castle is nowadays but a drowsy little market town, yet proud withal of being the metropolis of an extensive agricultural district, and renowned for its great cattle fairs, frequented by breeders and 'men whose talk is of bullocks,' who are attracted hither by the fine race of cattle for which this locality is noted. Then, on May 1, has it not its 'Mop,' or Hiring Fair, when the farm hands and servant girls 'break the year,' as the phrase goes; and you may overhear one goodwife complaining to another, anent some errant handmaid, ''Er's broke 'er 'ear this marnin', I'm afeared 'er'll allus be a rollin' stwun as'll never gether no moss!' In bygone times Bishop's Castle was (and for aught we know is still) ruled by a Mayor and Corporation, with fifteen Aldermen or Capital Burgesses, a Bailiff, and a Recorder. So early as 1572 the town received its first charter from the Sovereign, which was ratified by Charles I. in 1648. At the very top of the town, where the old coach roads from Wales converge, stands the Castle Hotel, one of those large, roomy caravansarys, frequented by wayfaring men in the days before railways had come to rob the country roads of their cheerful tide of traffic. To the rear of this inn lies an oldfashioned bowling-green, whose area marks the site of the keep-tower of the erstwhile Castle of Lydbury, built to protect the episcopal demesne against the freebooters of the Welsh border. In Leland's time the Castle was 'well maintenid, and set on a stronge Rokke, not very hi,' but seems to have been already reduced to ruins before the time of the Civil Wars. Perched on a tall green mound, high above the old town, the position is certainly a commanding one, affording a fine prospect over the adjacent country, though now somewhat obscured by trees. Close at hand rises the old Market House, now the Powis Institute and Reading Room, with the borough arms carved upon its gable, and the date of its erection, 1781. Over the door of an adjacent shop we espy the curious surname of Gotobed, a clan which should be widely represented, one would suppose, in this Sleepy Hollow! Another old lintel retains some ancient lettering, with the figures 1685. Then, turning down the steep High Street, we get a backward view of the town; the prim façade of an eighteenth-century Town Hall, topped by a slender belfry, seeming to block up the roadway, and some oldfashioned shops and dwellings flanking the narrow footpath. Presently we come to the church at the farther end of the town, though tradition avers that, once upon a time, the church stood in the very middle of it; not that the church has moved, but the town shrunk up into itself--but that is as it may be. An ancient ivy-clad tower is about the only relic of the older church which has survived, for, during the troubles of the Civil Wars, the sacred edifice fell a prey to the flames, and has only within the last forty years been rebuilt and renovated. There are some very ancient yews in the churchyard: and a tombstone near the belfry door bears the following inscription: 'A la mémoire de Louis Paces, Lieut.-Colonel de Chevaux legers, chevalier des ordres militaires des deux Siciles et d'Espayne. Mort à Bishop's Castle le 1re Mai 1814, age de 40 ans.' This must have been one of the French prisoners who, at the time of the Peninsular War, were billeted at Bishop's Castle. Bishop's Castle forms a good starting-point for exploring a little-frequented, rural country. Northwards lie Lydham and More, Lydham church standing, as is so frequently the case in this border district, cheek-by-jowl with a prehistoric tumulus. More is the ancestral home of the ancient family of that ilk, whose forbears 'came over from Normandy with the Conqueror.' Then there is Linley, with its stately avenues leading up towards hills which have been mined for lead ever since the Romans were there. Amongst these hills stands Hyssington, which we will take leave to visit, though it lies away outside our county, over the Welsh frontier. Anent the church at Hyssington there is a curious tradition. Long, long ago, in the old Popish days, an enormous Bull made his appearance at Hyssington, and grew bigger and bigger every day, until the good people of the neighbourhood went in fear of their lives by reason of the dreaded monster. At last things came to such a pass that the parson made up his mind to try heroic measures. So with book, bell and candle, he sallied forth in quest of the Bull, and, by reading of appropriate texts, managed to reduce the uncanny beast to such dimensions as would admit of his being driven into the church. But alack! before the creature could be finally extinguished, parson's candle had burnt out; and ere morning came, when the reading could be resumed, the Bull had swelled out again, until his huge body cracked the church walls from top to bottom! Such is the veracious legend; but whether this Bull hailed from the Emerald Isle, or belonged to that species known as Papal Bulls, history recordeth not; but the cracks in the church walls long remained to confound the incredulous. Continuing our perambulation we come presently to Church-Stoke, a pleasant looking village of half-timbered houses seated on the river Camlad, one of them bearing upon its gable-end the inscription, WHAT . IS . HERE . BY . MAN . ERECTED : LET . IT . BE . BY . GOD . PROTECTED : IOHN . MIDDLETON . GENT . AN . DO . 1685 : �TATIS . SU� . 27 . R . T . C : Returning direct across the hills to Bishop's Castle, we pass through Broughton, where, it is believed, the Romans had a station. Offa's Dyke, crossing the hills to the westward, runs near to Mainstone, a village supposed to acquire its name from a large granite stone standing near the west gate of the churchyard. From time immemorial it has been the custom for the village youths to test their strength by heaving this stone aloft, and then casting it backwards over the left shoulder. The name of Mainstone, it may be observed, shews the tendency to reduplication in place-names, for Maen is the Welsh for stone. A still more curious instance is that of Dollymase-meadow, near Gloucester, each of the three syllables in this case having exactly the same signification. The old road from Bishop's Castle to Clun traverses a rough, hilly country, with scarce a place big enough to be called a village all the way. On the outskirts of the town stands Blunden Hall, a timbered mansion, old, but much modernized. Anon our way lies up-hill, with the tree-crowned summit of Bury Ditches rising boldly ahead. After surmounting a sort of col amidst the dimpled hills, we begin to drop downwards into the vale of Clun, and the little town, with its grey old guardian castle, is seen nestling at the foot of dark, heather-clad hills, where the drifting cloud shadows linger. By-and-bye, as we march past the castle and enter the town, the westward-looking houses are painted in crimson and gold by the glow from the setting sun, while we dusty wayfarers bear away for the Buffalo Inn, whose hospitable roof is to be our shelter to-night. So taking up our quarters in the Blue Room, we will give the benefit of the doubt to the local legend, and hold that this is the chamber in which Sir Walter Scott once slept, and yonder table the very one upon which the 'Wizard of the North' wrote the first three chapters of 'The Betrothed'--there is nothing like being precise in matters such as these. Seated upon the banks of the river Clun, on the outskirts of that wild, hilly district to which it gives its name, the quiet market town of Clun forms the chief rendezvous for such slender commerce as goes forward in this isolated part of our County, which time-out-of-mind has acquired the name of Clun Forest. In early Norman days this remote inaccessible region became a sort of semi-independent Barony, called the 'Honour of Clun,' whose over-lords obtained the royal license to make conquest on the Welsh, and appear to have done pretty much as they liked with the goods and chattels of their unlucky vassals. Nay more, in those 'good old times,' the Lord of Clun claimed the right to inflict capital punishment, for we read of a certain William Kempe holding a messuage and croft on tenure of carrying to Shrewsbury the heads of felons, in order to prove that the right person had been executed. Save for its ruined Castle and ancient saddle-backed bridge, the townlet is featureless enough; indeed its prim, grey, sober-fronted dwellings look as though they had stepped across from the other side the Welsh border. Yet in bygone times the town must have been a place of no little importance, for we read that, at a survey held in 1605, it was found that 'the town of Clun, through the whole time whereof the memory of man does not exist to the contrary, is an ancient Borough Incorporate, with two Bailiffs, and Burgesses; and the Lord of the town has two Leet Courts, with a View of Frankpledge, held annually by the Seneschal for the time being.' [Illustration: Carde Doloreuse.] A bowshot distant from the town rise the ruins of Clun Castle, whose tall, grey, lichen-clad donjon looks out over a horseshoe bend of the river towards the dark Welsh hills to the westward; even as in the days when Raymond de Berenger, Knight of the Garde Doloreuse, entertained Gwenwyn Prince of Powys in this lonesome fortalice. Here, at Clun, the FitzAlans lorded it for many a generation over the adjacent march-lands. After many changes and vicissitudes, the castle passed eventually to the present Duke of Norfolk, who from this place acquires his second title of Baron Clun. With the exception of the keep-tower above mentioned, little remains of Clun Castle save two ruined circular bastions overlooking the river, and certain tall green mounds that give a clue to the original extent of the fortress. The outer bailey with its enclosing vallations is a broad, tree-shaded grassplot, where nowadays the townsfolk go a-pleasuring on high-days and holiday times. Clun Castle formed a very important link in the chain of fortresses planted by the Normans along the Welsh frontier, to secure their hard-won territory and control the turbulent natives. Towards the close of the twelfth century Rhys, Prince of South Wales, swooped down from his mountain fastnesses, and after many a fierce onslaught stormed and set fire to the castle. At a later period the place fell a prey to that scourge of the Welsh Marches, 'the irregular and wild Glendower,' and was finally dismantled by the Parliamentarians during the Civil Wars. So early, indeed, as the reign of Henry VIII., when that ubiquitous antiquary John Leland journeyed this way, 'Clunne Castell' was 'sumewhat ruinus,' 'though it hath bene,' he adds, 'bothe Stronge and well builded.' The following lines from 'The Betrothed' have been associated with the Castle of Clun: 'A place strong by nature, and well fortified by art, which the Welch prince had found it impossible to conquer, either by open force or stratagem; and which, remaining with a strong garrison in his rear, often chequed his invasions by rendering his retreat precarious. The river, whose stream washes on three sides the base of the proud eminence on which the castle is situated, curves away from the fortress and its corresponding village on the west, and the hill sinks downward to an extensive plain, so extremely level as to indicate its alluvial origin. 'The bridge, a high narrow combination of arches of unequal size, was about half a mile distant from the castle, in the very centre of the plain. The river itself ran in a deep, rocky channel, was often unfordable, and at all times difficult of passage, giving considerable advantage to the defenders of the Castle.' Over the old bridge in question lies our way towards Clun church; and, as the local saw has it, 'Whoever crosses Clun Bridge comes back sharper than he went.' The bridge itself, with its five uneven arches and bold sparlings, is still a picturesque object, and in former days was a favourite subject with artists: though the old cordwainer and his ancient timber dwelling beside the bridge have long since passed away. [Illustration: Old Lych Gate at Clun.] So we will push ahead to St. George's church, whose massive western tower and curious louvred steeple are already in sight, peering over an old lych-gate in the foreground. This lych-gate is a very charming bit of ancient carpentry, its solid substantial oak beams shewing excellent workmanship, with just a touch of ornamentation here and there; while the roof is covered with rough stone-shingles, overgrown with mosses and lichens. Passing through the wicket, we traverse a rustic grass-grown God's-acre, beneath the shadow of one of those immemorial yews so common in our country churchyards. Why they were planted in such a situation has afforded no little matter for conjecture; whether they were intended as emblems of immortality, or to serve the more utilitarian purpose of supplying bows for the English archers who in bygone days formed the backbone of our fighting line: 'Oh the crooked stick and the grey goose's wing, But for which Old England were but a fling!' The strong nail-studded west door of the church has its old iron hinges, and some names cut in bold Roman letters upon it. The roomy north porch by which we enter has a chamber, or parvise, over it, and stone benches against the walls upon either side. The interior is large and spacious, the fine oak roof being borne upon Norman pillars and arches, while clerestory windows admit light from the southward wall. A modern screen divides nave from chancel, and beside it rises a tall Jacobean pulpit with a sounding-board, all carved in the style peculiar to that period. The chancel is lighted by well proportioned windows with Purbeck marble shafts. Suspended from the chancel roof hangs a curious fifteenth-century canopy, nicely constructed of oak fashioned into panels, and adorned with three small carved wooden angels. Its purpose is uncertain, but it bears some resemblance to the canopied structure called a baldacchino found in some continental churches. In the vestry is a mural tablet to Sir Robert Howard: and the rough old staircase leading up into the tower is worth a moment's notice, for the rude simplicity of its construction. The Churchwarden's accounts here shew that, in the year 1741, the sum of ten shillings was paid 'for whipping the Doggs out of ye church, serviss time, and keeping people from sleeping in church During divine serviss.' [Illustration: Hospital of the Holy & Undivided Trinity at Clunn.] In a retired spot upon the eastern side of the town stands the 'Hospital of the Holy and Undivided Trinity at Clunn,' a refuge for decayed tradesmen founded by the Right Hon. the Earl of Northampton, in the year 1614. And truly their lines have fallen in pleasant places, these grey-headed old veterans; each lowly domicile giving upon a central plot of greensward, with benches set against the wall in sunny nooks, and an old wooden pump standing in one corner, with its bucket and chain for drawing water: 'The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.' 'Eh sure, sur,' exclaims an ancient derelict with whom we chance to pass the time of day, 'you'm makin' a purty picture of th'owd plaace, I'll warrand, but I canna see well wi'out my speck-tackles. I binna so young as I was, ye see, but there's several chaps 'ere as is older nor I be, and I'm turned eighty myself.' A tablet upon the wall of a small chapel, dedicated to the inmates' use, bears a lengthy Latin inscription in memory of Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, who established similar retreats at Greenwich and Castle Rising. According to an ordinance duly advertised upon the wall of the dining hall, each poor man is entitled to receive yearly, on Founder's Day, 'a gown ready made of strong cloth or kersey, of a sad colour, to wear upon Week Days; and also every fourth year, upon Trinity Sunday, have delivered unto him to wear, such a livery gown of blue cloth lined with bayes, with the Founder's cognizance set on the sleeve, to wear upon Sundays and Festival Days.' In the dining hall, too, is preserved an ancient cross-bow, and a large two-handed double-edged sword about five feet in length. Such, then, is the old Hospital at Clun; so now, after a moonlight stroll around the environs, we turn in for the night at the 'Buffalo'; and, far removed from the din of railroad shrieks, or bustle of passing traffic, sleep the sleep of the just until morning looks in at the casement. [Illustration: SEAL of CLUN HOSPITAL.] ROUND ABOUT CLUN FOREST. TO KNIGHTON AND LUDLOW. A glance at the map at the end of this volume will reveal, down in the south-western extremity of the county, a remote outlying cantle of Shropshire wedged in, as it were, between the Welsh counties of Montgomery and Radnor. It is a wild, hilly, somewhat inaccessible district, even in these days; but in Leland's time the 'faire Forest of Clunne' was 'a great Forest of redde Dere and Roois,' extending over many thousand acres, with much timber growing upon it, and 'very faire and good Game' amongst its holts and hollows. In and out through this sequestered region wind the clear waters of the Clun, rippling along past rustic crofts and breadths of gorse and fernbrake, and giving its name to a group of quiet villages and hamlets upon its banks: 'Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the sleepiest places under the sun'-- as the saying goes, though one may vary the epithet ad lib., and substitute drunkenest, dirtiest, etc., as fancy dictates. Towards the south the country falls away to the broader valley of the Teme, which, flowing past Knighton and Coxwall Knoll, forms the southern boundary of the Forest, and parts England from Wales. Camps, earthworks, etc., dotted plentifully throughout the locality, bear witness to the days when might was the only right, and every man's hand was against his neighbour. Tradition avers that Caractacus made his last stand against the Romans amidst the fastnesses of Clun Forest; and Offa's Dyke, the ancient boundary of Mercia, traverses the district from south to north on its way from Severn to Dee: 'There is a faymous thinge Calde Offa's Dyke, that reacheth farre in lengthe: All kinds of Ware people might thither bringe; It was free ground, and calde the Britain's strengthe.' But it is time to be up and doing, for we must measure many a mile over hill and dale to-day. Old Sol is already abroad, and a light sou'westerly breeze is rustling the fresh young foliage as we fare forth upon our peregrinations; while the thirsty soil emits a grateful smell after the rain of yesternight. Down the village street, then, we take our way, noticing the legend 'Ironmonger, Dahlia Grower and Poultry Breeder,' over an enterprising tradesman's door. Setting a course up the vale of Clun, we drop into a meadow path that, keeping company with a hollow, waterworn gipsy lane, affords glimpses of the ruined castle, and so brings us presently to Whitcot. Near Whitcot we notice an old grey maenhir, or standing-stone, eight feet high, nearly as broad, and only about six inches in thickness. With the hills closing in upon either hand we push onwards along the valley, falling into a leisurely pace as the sun warms to his work. Another mile and we come to Offa's Dyke, a huge green mound overshadowed by beech trees, whose course can be easily traced as it crosses the valley and climbs the shaggy hill slope beyond. 'Aye, that's Awf's Ditch, right enough,' says an old fellow tilling the hedgerow, 'and now you be in Wales a'this side, like, but it's a cankersome country to live in, I can tell yer.' At Newcastle we find ourselves in a scattered hamlet overshadowed by certain round green hills, whose topmost crests are scarped with ancient camps or earthworks, whereof the name is legion hereabouts. This part of the Forest, west of Offa's Dyke, was known in olden days as the Manor, or Honour, of Tempseter, a district of Shropshire won from the Welsh before Edward I. was King. Presently we take leave of the Newtown road, and, crossing the infant Clun at a place called Dyffryn, march away through leafy lanes en route for Bettws-y-Crwyn. Our road goes from bad to worse as it straggles up the bank, degenerating at last into a downright Welsh byway, so that, like Agag of old, we have to 'walk delicately' amidst the ruts and rivulets which do duty as a thoroughfare. Passing two or three outlying cottages where shock-headed children are playing around the doorways, we come in sight of Bettws-y-Crwyn church, a little lonely fane perched so high aloft on its hill-top as to look down, so to speak, upon every other church throughout the county; indeed with one or two exceptions it is, we believe, the most loftily situated church in England. The name of this place affords an interesting clue to its history. For Bettws-y-Crwyn, being interpreted, signifies the Bede-house of the Skins; having been so called since, in ancient times, the shepherds who frequented these lonesome hills had a Bede-house or Chapel here, and paid their tribute of skins or hides to Chirbury Priory. Up here in the churchyard we get a wonderful outlook over the hills and dales of south Shropshire, which are seen stretching away for many a league in picturesque gradation, with Brown Clee Hill bringing up the rear beyond the dark ridges of Wenlock Edge. We now step inside the church, an ancient timeworn structure whose low grey stone walls, narrow windows and simple bell-cot, look thoroughly in keeping with the circumjacent landscape. The old font, once the pride of the church, was broken into pieces when the church was 'restored' about half a century ago, and used, it is said, to repair the churchyard walls! [Illustration: Bettws-y-Crwyn] By some lucky chance, the ancient roodscreen has escaped the hand of the spoiler, and forms to-day the most notable feature of the little edifice. It is massively constructed of oak grown black with lapse of years, and its gothic arches are wrought into delicate tracery work. This lofty screen rises to the tie-beam of the roof, whose curved principals, moulded brackets and quatrefoil panels are fashioned, as tradition tells, from Spanish-chestnut wood. Solid oaken benches of the most primitive construction occupy the nave; their ends displaying the names of various farmhouses, locally termed Halls, such as Hall-of-the-Forest, Moor Hall, Cow Hall, etc. [Illustration: Chalice at Bettws y Crwyn] By favour of the Vicar, we are able to give a sketch of the Bettws Communion cup. It is of silver, bearing the London hall-mark and the date 1662, and is ornamented, as may be seen, with a repoussé flower pattern. Though inferior in design to vessels of an earlier period, such as the beautiful Bacton chalice, this little cup is a very fair example of the silversmith's art of the seventeenth century. Our way now lies past the vicarage, a modern house standing 'four-square to all the winds of heaven,' and so loftily placed as to be a landmark for miles around. Thence we push on due northwards across the high, open moorlands of Clun Forest, a 'dizzy' country, as they say hereabouts, whose contours are revealed to our sight by shafts of sunlight radiating from the western sky. Patches of golden gorse interspersed amidst bracken and heather fill the air with their warm, rich scent, as we follow the devious trackway; and a shrewd, pungent whiff of peat-reek salutes our nostrils while passing a lonely cottage, for coal is a luxury unknown up here, seven long miles from any railway-station. Old ways and antiquated customs linger yet in this 'back'ardly' neighbourhood, where education has much ado to make headway against ignorance and ancient prejudice. The time-honoured 'Wake' still holds its own in Bettws parish; and rushlights, it is said, are in use to this day in some of the isolated farmhouses towards the Welsh border. [Illustration: The Cantlin Cross.] Following a bridle track, we descend into a secluded dell which holds the head waters of the Clun. Then, mounting up through a pine wood, we come out upon the open braeside over against the Cantlin Cross, or Cantlin Stone as it is sometimes called, whose counterfeit presentment appears in our sketch. The cross itself, though handsomely carved, has no particular claims to antiquity, having been erected, as we are informed, about forty years ago by the late Mr. Beriah Botfield, sometime M.P. for Ludlow. The design, however, is evidently an antique one; and on the ground in front of the cross stands a low, flat slab of grey limestone, rudely inscribed with the legend W . C: DECSED . HERE : BVRIED . 1691 . AT . BETVS: The initials are those of a certain William Cantlin, who, travelling through the wilds of Clun Forest in the above mentioned year, met his death at this spot, and was buried at Bettws-y-Crwyn. It is said that upon one occasion the stone itself was produced in a court of law, in order to prove that the place where Cantlin died was situated in the parish of Bettws. Upon passing through a gate in the adjacent coppice our eyes are gladdened by a vision of folding hills, green fertile vales, and distant cloud-capped mountains, the giants of Wild Wales--a glorious panorama! Presently we hie away once more upon our travels, retracing our steps to the main road, and swinging along at a good round pace, favoured by the downward grade. Past Hall-of-the-Forest we go, not much of a place, despite its imposing name, though originally built by Anne, Lady Mautravers, some time in the sixteenth century, and hence formerly called Ladye's Hall. At Newcastle we strike up the hills to the southwards, recrossing old Offa's Dyke and following the crest of the ridge. 'Weather's looking very brewin',' remarks a brother tramp; for storm-clouds, gathering in the west, hover grand and gloomily above the darkening ridges of Radnor Forest; so, putting the best foot foremost, we spin along the grass-grown bridle-path under the lee of the wind-tossed hedgerow. Out leaps the lightning, the thunder rolls, and the tempest swoops down in a whirl of seething rain-scuds; but what care we, for here in the nick of time is the Buffalo Inn at Clun, with a good meat-tea piping hot on the parlour table, and a cheery fire sparkling in the grate. So while the elements work their will abroad, and the rain drops patter at the casement, we sit within bien and cosy, canopied like gods in clouds of tobacco-smoke; 'fighting our battles o'er again,' and discussing plans of campaign for future excursions amidst 'fresh woods and pastures new.' * * * * * The morrow, then, sees us early astir, and taking the road ere the city man has opened his morning paper. And before the first mile is left behind, we find reason to congratulate ourselves on having made an early start, for the way is parlous steep, and the sun already rejoicing like a giant to run his course. So at a leisurely pace we breast the ascent--'chi va piano va sano,' as the Italians say--with big, rounded hills rising upon either hand, one of them having a strange sort of quarry-like chasm, called the Rock of Woolberry, scored deep in its wooded flank. This collar-work continuing for a matter of two miles or more, brings us to a moorland crest about a thousand feet above sea-level, whence the eye ranges over leagues of broken country, with the play of shine and shadow chequering its varied surface. At a place bearing the euphemistic title of New Invention, we quit the hard highroad and make a bee-line up the open hillside, until we find ourselves in the vast, prehistoric encampment, known as Gaer Ditches, or Caer Caradoc. The camp proves a fine example of an early British earthwork, being oval, or rather pear-shaped, in form, and protected upon its most vulnerable western flank by three concentric lines of entrenchment; while upon the east, where the natural declivity is more abrupt, there are but two, with traces of an entrance way in each of these faces. Tradition has been busy about this interesting spot. We are to believe that once, in days remote, Caractacus stood here at bay against his enemies. Nay, is not the stream at the foot of the hill still called Redlake river, because for three whole days its waters ran red with the blood of the combatants? And down yonder in the vale is Lurkinghope, where tradition tells the vanquished Britons 'lurked in hope' of retrieving their fortunes, while lying in ambush near the defile at Garn Gap. However that may have been, we now lay our course for Stow, a tiny hamlet nestling in a wild rocky cirque called Ragged Kingdom. Our route lies over Stow Hill, whose summit is marked by the blackened cairn of the 'Diamond Jubilee' bonfire. But lusty appetites, begotten of fresh air and hours of steady tramping, now demand instant satisfaction. So down we sit, and, whilst feasting our eyes on the beauties of the landscape, we regale the inner man on more material fare: the pile of sandwiches becoming 'small by degrees, and beautifully less,' as the moments flit by. A drink of clear water under Holloway Rocks, and a pipe or two as we lie on the short, warm turf, and like giants refreshed we go our ways in search of new adventures. [Illustration: Stowe. Shropshire.] Coming anon to Stow, we borrow the key from the neighbouring vicarage, and armed with this 'open sesame' proceed forthwith to the church. This diminutive house of prayer has one or two notable features. A good open-timbered roof spans the nave, traces of a rood-loft being visible overhead where it joins the chancel, though no approach to it can now be discovered. A massive oak communion table is about the only remnant of ancient fittings here. A small wooden bell-cot rises above the western gable, and the walls of the church, which are unusually thick, are pierced with modernized windows. Bidding adieu to this lofty yet lowly hamlet, we traverse a narrow green lane where the hedgerows are a-tangle with dog-roses, briony and 'traveller's-joy,' besides many another familiar wayside wildling. In two miles we find ourselves at Knighton, a pleasant, busy townlet, just within the Radnorshire border. Here we board the first up-train that comes along; the railway line hugging the frontier, and affording glimpses of the hill country amidst which we have recently wandered. Near Bucknall station we catch sight of Coxwall Knoll, an isolated tree-clad monticle surrounded by ancient entrenchments, where some authorities locate the scene of Caractacus's last tussle with Ostorius. Bucknall village is close at hand on the brink of the Redlake river, its grey church tower just peeping over the trees that clothe the hills in the background. There is a curious old font in Bucknall church with a sort of interlacing pattern carved around its bowl, the date whereof is uncertain. Running past Bedstone, we alight at Hopton Heath station, shoulder sketching gear, etc., and trudge away to Heath House, which lies a short mile to the southward. Heath House, the residence of Chas. Seaton, Esq., is a large, substantial edifice, dating mainly from the latter part of the seventeenth century, and seated in a broad park-like demesne. [Illustration: Staircase at Heath House, Clungunford.] The interior of the mansion contains several handsome, panelled apartments, adorned with pictures and curios that reflect the artistic taste of their present proprietor. But the most notable feature of the house is an elaborate old staircase hung with ancient tapestry, which, as may be gathered from our sketch, is a marvel of massive construction. Its huge oaken handrails and newels, and even the twisted balusters, look as strong and simple as possible, and much of the work has the appearance of having been fashioned with the axe. The topmost flight of all, said to have been brought from Hopton Castle, is little better than a ladder in point of convenience. Broadward Hall, the next-door neighbour to Heath House, is a plain stone building chiefly remarkable from the fact that it is built, so to say, around a curious circular staircase. In the grounds abutting upon the river Clun rises an artificial tump, surmounted by a group of lofty elm trees. Via Broadward Bridge we now make our way to Clungunford; diverging a little to take a look at Beckjay Mill, in bygone days a favourite haunt of David Cox, the artist. Clungunford village, rambling beside the river Clun, has a well-restored church, flanked by a prehistoric tumulus. St. Cuthbert's church is well worth a visit, for its ancient features have been faithfully preserved, including one of those singular 'leper' windows that have so often proved a bone of contention to archæologists. On a sunny bank overlooking the river Clun stands Clungunford House, the residence of J. C. L. Rocke, Esq., Lord of the Manor. Half a mile away upstream is Abcott Manor-house, a large old half-timbered structure now used as a farmhouse. A big, curiously moulded chimney stack, is a noticeable object as we draw near; and, being shewn within, we pass from one old dilapidated chamber to another, admiring its wainscoted walls and plastered ceilings, which, beautiful even in decay, still display queer heraldic monsters, lions, stags, unicorns, goats, parrots, etc., engaged amidst interlacing strapwork. One or two old lattice-paned windows here retain their original wrought-iron fastenings. Abcott was for many generations the abode of the Princes, a family now extinct in this locality, though there are monuments in plenty to them in Clungunford church. The Rocke Arms at the end of the village is a rustic inn of the homely, oldfashioned sort, quite equal to providing a pint and a chop, or finding, at a pinch, a night's lodging for the passing traveller. So here we call a halt awhile to refresh the inner man, before tackling the cross-country lanes that are to lead us to Hopton Castle. Pleasant it is, as one jogs along these rural byways, to see the country children curtseying to the stranger as he passes, a custom all too rapidly falling into desuetude in these 'independent' days, when young brains are crammed with undigested facts, while the character is left to make shift as best it may. [Illustration: Hopton Castle. Salop.] In a nook of the hills to the westward stands Hopton Castle, a grey old Norman keep-tower, seated in a curiously low exposed position near the banks of a stream. Traces of ruined outworks indicate that the place was much more extensive in former days, when it figured in some stirring episodes of March-land history. By Camden's account, Hopton was presented by Henry II., to Walter de Clifford, of Clifford Castle in Herefordshire; and towards the end of the thirteenth century we find Roger, Lord Mortimer, of Wigmore, in possession of the Castle. Passing later to the Corbets and the Wallops, Hopton Castle held out stubbornly for the King at the time of the Civil Wars, but in 1644 was captured and demolished by the Parliamentarians, its garrison put to the sword, and Samuel Moor the Governor marched off to prison at Ludlow Castle. A curious old grant, by right of which the 'Heyres-mayle of ye Hoptons' held this Manor of William the Conqueror, runs to the following effect: 'I, Will, King, the third of my reign, Give to the Northern Hunter, To me that art both Luine and Deare, The Hoppe, and the Hoptoune, And all the bounds, up and downe, Under the Earth to Hell, Above the Earth to Heaven,' etc. Returning by a different route direct to Hopton Heath station, we pass through Broome, 'change' upon arriving at Craven Arms, and run down past Stokesay Castle to Onibury, whose church has an ancient, possibly pre-Norman, chancel arch, and one or two other good features. On the outskirts of the village stands Stokesay Court, the handsome modern residence of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., Lord of the Manor, and owner of large estates in this locality. Alighting at Bromfield station we make our way to the village, as picturesque a spot as one could wish to see, situated in a pleasant, fertile vale, close to the place where Onny and Teme unite. At the end of the village street we traverse an old, grey, many-arched bridge, spanning the lively Onny, near which rises a row of lofty, storm-rent poplars, still known as the 'Twelve Apostles,' though several veterans have succumbed to the gales in recent years. A furlong further on we espy a picturesque old building pierced by a wide stone archway, and chequered with timber quarterings, over which a fine elm tree casts its dappled shadow. This was the Gatehouse of Bromfield Priory, a Benedictine monastery, whose history carries us very far back into the 'queer old crumpled-up past,' for the annals of Domesday Book shew that, even in the Conqueror's time, Bromfield was a place of some consequence. Originally a college of secular canons, the monastery became later on an establishment of Canons regular of the Benedictine order; receiving benefits at the hands of King Henry II., in whose reign Bromfield Priory became affiliated to St. Peter's Abbey at Llanthony Secunda, near Gloucester. Bromfield church, whether regarded as a prominent feature in a fair landscape, or examined in the details of its architecture, cannot but afford the visitor much pleasant matter for contemplation. Seated upon one of those waterside meads the monks of old so frequently selected, its broad, massive tower and weather-stained gables are seen mirrored in the stream that winds around the churchyard, and with the ancient Priory ruins, flanked by a group of dark firs rising clear against the sky, makes a charming study for the artists' brush. Internally, too, the church has many points of interest. The chancel arch of the old Priory church may be discerned in the eastern wall, the chancel itself having been pulled down when the parish came into possession. A remarkably handsome modern triptych is a noticeable feature of the church, contrasting favourably with the plaster ceiling overhead, whose colour-decorations have been aptly described as 'the best specimen of the worst period of ecclesiastical art.' Crossing the Teme by an old stone bridge, we enter Oakley Park, a glorious stretch of ferny glades and secluded woodland dingles, boasting such Druid oaks as it would be hard to match elsewhere. Right ahead rise the richly timbered slopes of Bringwood Chase, a picturesque range of hills, whose topmost crests are crowned by three conspicuous clumps of trees, landmarks for miles around. Oakley Hall, a red-brick Georgian mansion, lies off upon our left, and is chiefly remarkable for its uncommonly beautiful situation on the banks of the Teme, overlooking some of the choicest scenery in the district. Away towards Downton lie certain parcels of land known to this day as 'Crawl Meadows,' and thereby hangs the following tale. Once upon a time, a certain fair maid having plighted her troth with a valiant but impecunious knight, the angry sire vowed her sole dower should be just so much land as his daughter could crawl over, on hands and knees, between sunset and dawn of day. Commencing her journey at Bromfield, the young lady travelled with such vigour that, by the time old Sol peeped over the hills again, she was well on her way to Downton, a good four miles, as the crow flies, from her starting-place at Bromfield. But the waning daylight warns us to be astir, while the towers of Ludlow Castle, rising darkly against the eastward sky, tell we are within a measurable distance of our journey's end. So betwixt fields and hedgerows we now hasten along, exchanging a 'good e'en' with the cottagers as we trudge through a wayside hamlet, and coming to a bridge over Teme, where the last of the daylight flickers upon the waters of a rushing weir. Then up a steep way through Dinham, passing a dusky old building, now a coach-house, but once a Gothic chapel, and rounding the outskirts of the castle: the homing rooks in the elms overhead announcing our arrival in their own vociferous fashion. Thus through narrow, crowded, oldfashioned street, we come to our night's bivouac at Ludlow; promising ourselves a treat on the morrow in exploring the memory-haunted precincts of this historic border-town. [Illustration: Branks at Ludlow.] ROUND ABOUT LUDLOW. Ludlow town occupies a fine, commanding situation upon a sort of knoll, or promontory of high land, encompassed upon its southern side by the windings of the Teme, whose waters, flowing through a picturesque defile beneath the limestone scarps of Whitcliff, here divide Shropshire from its neighbour of Hereford. What the place was like in olden times we may gather from the records of John Leland. 'The town of Ludlow,' he observes, writing in the reign of Henry VIII., 'is very propre, welle walled and gated, and standeth every way eminent from a Botom. In the side of the Town, as a Peace of the Enclosing of the Walle, is a fair Castel. Within the Town, even yn the mydle, is one Paroch chyrch. There be in the Wall 5 gates. Broad gate leadeth to Broad Street, the fayrest part of the Towne. The Castel standeth on a strong Rocke, well ditched, between Corne gate and Mille gate. The Paroch church is very fayre and large, and richly adorned, and taken for the fayrest in all those Quarters.' The town, then, as Leland has it, 'standeth every way eminent from a Botom,' with the noble old church of St. Lawrence crowning the brow of the hill, so that its tall, ruddy tower forms a notable landmark to the good folks of the whole countryside. Upon the western flank of the town, just where the declivity is most precipitous, rise the ruins of Ludlow Castle; that magnificent stronghold of the Lords Marchers, to which the place owes its ancient fame. To the Castle, then, let us first of all direct our steps. [Illustration: Sir Henry Sydney's Gateway. Ludlow Castle.] Approaching by way of Castle Square, we enter upon a broad, smooth stretch of greensward, encompassed by stone walls and old ruined structures, the Base court or outer Bailey of the fortress. Before us rises a noble pile of buildings which constitute the main fabric of the castle. Grey and weatherworn, shrouded in ivy, and overshadowed by tall sycamore trees, these venerable ruins compose a scene picturesque to a degree, whereof the sketch upon the opposite page may convey some impression. [Illustration: Ludlow Castle & Church.] In the centre rises the great Keep or donjon tower, a vast substantial structure of the Norman period, whose massive walls, pierced with narrow, round-arched openings, little better than loopholes, contrast strikingly with the mullioned windows and slender, roofless gables that appear alongside. These latter, as is recorded by an inscription above the entrance gateway, owe their inception to Sir Henry Sydney, President of the Welsh Marches in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, whose arms, conjoined with those of England and France, appear in a panel above the archway, with the date of erection, 1581. An isolated tower away to the left is one of the most ancient portions of the castle. It is known as 'Mortimer's Tower,' from a tradition that Hugh de Mortimer was imprisoned within its walls towards the close of the twelfth century. But that is another story, whereof more anon. Let us now pass on to the inner ward, which is surrounded by tall, irregular structures, whose crumbling walls and battlements have been brought to a rare state of soft, harmonious colouring, by the mellowing touch of time. Out in the courtyard, detached from all its neighbours, rises a small circular twelfth-century chapel, whose beautifully enriched, semi-headed west doorway and curiously carved string-course, bespeak the Normans' handiwork. This chapel is almost unique of its kind in England. The fine chancel arch still remains, but of the chancel itself only the foundations can now be traced. In former days the chapel was hung with 'Armes in colours, sitch as fewe can shewe,' 'So bravely wroughte, so fayre and finely fram'd, That to the Worlde's end their beauty may endure!' We now pass out again into the green courtyard. Turning our backs upon the entrance way we see before us an extensive group of buildings, now roofless and half in ruin, yet stately in their decay. In the centre, approached by a sort of sloping gangway, rises a noble hall, a spot famed in local history as the scene of the earliest performance of Milton's 'Masque of Comus.' One of the adjacent chambers is pointed out as that occupied by Prince Arthur, son of Henry VII. Beside the Keep-tower are the scanty ruins of the castle kitchen, which, to judge from the fireplace, an enormous oven, and some rusty iron utensils of proportionate size, must have been on a scale commensurate even with the needs of this vast mediæval ménage. Close at hand is the castle well, which, though not enclosed within the area of the Norman keep, is not far away from it, and was probably protected by its adjacent outworks. Down in the basement of the keep is a dark, vaulted chamber, far below the surface of the ground. This was originally used as the castle chapel, whereof two well-proportioned Norman arches still remain, supported upon slender pillars with simply ornamented capitals. A curious arrangement of walls and passages here has given rise to an obscure myth concerning lions, or other wild beasts, having been kept in this chamber to devour obnoxious prisoners, when it was used at one time as a dungeon. Well, to make a long story short, a climb to the top of the ancient Keep-tower forms a fitting finale to our explorations; for the prospect from its lofty battlements is extremely varied and picturesque. The castle precincts, lying at our feet, look very green and pleasant amid their setting of verdant foliage. Beyond a group of tall elms appear the old tiled roofs of the town, dominated by the stately tower of St. Lawrence's church, while the bold outline of Titterstone Clee Hill rises far away in the background. Towards the north lie the Stretton hills, enclosing a luxuriant vale, followed by the dimpled heights that mark the whereabouts of Clun Forest. Directing our gaze towards the south, a goodly scene meets the eye where the Teme, winding through its hollow gorge, washes the lower slopes of Whitcliff, whose rough, rocky terraces merge higher up in the rich masses of woodland that clothe the hillsides. Many a time in the dim, forgotten past, have these old walls re-echoed to the making of history. At the date of Domesday Survey the Manor of Ludlow was held by Roger de Lacy, by whom the Castle was built. Joce de Dinan, 'a strong and valiant knight,' who was Lord of Ludlow in King Stephen's reign, was constantly at feud with his rival, Hugh de Mortimer of Wigmore, until, having captured that knight by an ambuscade, he shut him up a prisoner in the loftiest tower in the third ward of the Castle, which to this day retains the name of 'Mortimer's Tower.' Under King Stephen and his successor the fortress passed through a time of storm and stress, marked by some stirring incidents. A romantic story turns upon the adventures of Fulk FitzWarine and Hawyse, daughter of Joce de Dinan; and the intrigues of Arnold de Lisle with that 'very gentle damsel,' Marion of the Heath. Early in the thirteenth century Ludlow Castle was seized by King John, who, during his great struggle with the Barons, carried fire and sword throughout the Welsh Marches. Henry III. visited Ludlow in the course of his Border wars, and concluded there a treaty of peace with Prince Llewelyn. During this and the succeeding reign the Mortimers, Lords of Wigmore, attained to great influence, and eventually secured by marriage their claim to the English crown. Richard Plantagenet, during his chequered career, was often at Ludlow Castle, where he was besieged by the King in October, 1459. Treachery in the camp, however, proved the ruin of Richard's cause, and the Lancastrians captured and plundered the castle. After suffering eclipse, the fortunes of York were once more retrieved at the famous Battle of Mortimer's Cross, fought a few miles from Ludlow. At a later date Edward IV. sent his two boys for safe keeping to Ludlow Castle; and Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII., spent a portion of his short life within its precincts. The Court of the Presidency of Wales, established about this period, figures largely in the subsequent history of Ludlow; and by the middle of the sixteenth century the town and castle had risen to the zenith of their fortunes. At the time of the Civil Wars Ludlow Castle was held for the King, and proved a hard nut for the Parliamentarians to crack, being the last stronghold in Shropshire to fall into their hands. In 1689 the Court of the Marches was abolished, and as a result the Castle was finally allowed to fall into a state of ruin and decay. A truce, now, to history. Retracing our steps to the castle-garth, we pass through the outer doorway and fare forth into Ludlow town in search of antiquarian spoil. Our quest is quickly rewarded, for at yonder street corner, beyond some tall elms, rises the Castle Lodge, a picturesque structure of timber and plaster, built by Thomas Sackford, a burgess of Ludlow, in Queen Elizabeth's reign. Sackford held the office of Master of Requests under that Sovereign, and in 1572 was appointed Porter, and Keeper of the Prisoners in the Marches of Wales. The ancient timber quartering of the upper story has only recently been brought to light from beneath its coating of modern plaster; a laudable restoration, which might well be imitated in the case of other old Ludlow house-fronts. In Castle Square, hard by, stands the new Market-house, a spick-and-span production of the 1887 Jubilee year. Its older prototype was a plain, unobtrusive brick edifice dating from the time of Queen Anne; of which period one or two large, roomy houses, overlooking Castle Square, are fair representatives. Threading our way through a narrow thoroughfare, we presently catch a glimpse of a quaint old structure, surmounted by a clock turret, or belfry. This is the Butter Cross, a grey stone edifice built, perhaps, a couple of centuries ago, and, without any great pretensions to architectural taste, yet a pleasant object to look upon by reason of its uneven, weather-stained surfaces, and rough irregular contours. Beneath its old worn arches the country folk foregather of a market day; and it is worth while to linger near on a Sunday morning to watch the Mayor's procession, when, accompanied by the black robed mace-bearers, he marches hence to attend service in the great collegiate church hard by, as the time-honoured custom is. Let us follow his Worship's lead, then, and take a look at St. Lawrence's church. For this purpose we turn through a short narrow passage-way, which goes by the curious name of 'Scallens,' or Kalends; at the end whereof we find ourselves before a large hexagonal south porch with angle buttresses and embattled parapet, a feature seldom met with in our English churches. St. Lawrence's church at Ludlow is undoubtedly one of the finest throughout all broad Shropshire. Its ruddy sandstone walls, its serried buttresses and graceful flamboyant windows, rise in charming contrast above the sombre yew trees whose foliage enshrouds the quiet graveyard; while, high overhead, the great central tower soars aloft into the blue, with the jackdaws wheeling and circling around its topmost battlements, or holding noisy conclave amidst the intricacies of its great traceried windows. The interior of the church, too, displays that spacious dignity characteristic of the Perpendicular style: the clerestoried nave, the chancel with its grand painted windows, and the lofty open lantern beneath the tower, combining to create an appearance of cathedral-like magnificence. What with the rich, subdued glow of ancient glass, the dark oak screens spanning chancel and transepts, and the slender pillars and arches soaring far aloft, the general effect is extremely noble and impressive. A magnificent canopied oak roodscreen divides the nave from the chancel, which is flanked on either side by rows of stalls, used in bygone times by the chantry priests of St. John of Jerusalem, their dark oaken tracery contrasting beautifully with the old grey stonework around. The miserere seats here are worth a close examination, being carved with very quaint emblematical imagery; as, for example, the panel which figures at the end of the present chapter. The great Perpendicular window, which occupies nearly the whole of the east end of the chancel, is filled with ancient stained glass, portraying, in the realistic style dear to the mediæval mind, scenes from the Legend of St. Lawrence, the tutelary saint of the church. Some good old glass in the east window of the adjacent chapel of St. John records the so-called Legend of the King. The treatment is curious and original, as it often was in those days. Indeed, every window of this chapel has some beauty of its own. But to return to the chancel. Beneath the great window, from wall to wall, extends an elegant stone reredos, brought to light some years since in the course of restorations. It is divided up into a series of canopied and crocketed niches, containing small sculptured statues of considerable beauty. Behind this screen is a remarkable little chamber lighted by a single early pointed window, and supposed to have been used either as the church-treasury, or for communicating with lepers, or outcasts. In the south chancel wall there is a handsome sedilia of Perpendicular date; and opposite to it a large, arched recess, where the Easter Sepulchre was displayed in pre-Reformation days. The south or Lady-chapel has a fine Jesse window, besides other notable features. The backs of the stalls, dividing this chapel from the chancel, are painted in Old English lettering with 'The commandemente of Almyghty God,' set up, by order of the royal commissioners, in the reign of good Queen Bess. In olden times it was customary for the Cordwainers and other honourable companies to hold their meetings in this chapel; as did the Fletchers, or Arrowsmiths, in the north transept, the gable whereof is still surmounted by their cognizance, an arrow. An unusually fine flamboyant window is, unfortunately, hidden from the interior by the large and very excellent organ that almost monopolizes this transept. Though not so numerous as one might expect, there are several handsome monuments in Ludlow church. The oldest of these is a much mutilated table-tomb in the north aisle, reputed to be that of Arthur, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII., who died near Ludlow. On the top of this tomb are piled, and doled out thence every Sunday morning, twelve goodly quartern loaves for the benefit of as many poor widows. Under the before-mentioned arch of the Easter Sepulchre, upon a panelled table-tomb, repose the effigies of an Elizabethan knight and his lady, with the ensuing inscription: 'HEARE LYETH THE BODYES OF SYR ROBART TOWNESHEND, KNIGHT, CHIEF JUSTES OF THE COUNSELL IN THE MARCHES OF WALLES AND CHESTER, AND DAME ALICE HYS WYFF.' In the panels below appear their 'VI. SONNES AND VI. DOUGHTERS, LAWFULLY BEGOT.' Over the way is a similar but plainer tomb, which, though now lacking the 'Closet fayre in-wrought, where Lords may sit in stately solemn wise,' that Churchyard the poet saw, displays still some handsome hatchments, set into the wall above. 'HEARE LYETHE,' runs the legend, 'THE BODYE OF AMBROSIA SYDNEY, IIIITH DOUGHTER OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE SYR HENRYE SYDNEY, KNIGHT OF THE MOSTE NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, LORDE PRESIDENT OF THE COUNSELL OF WALLES, ETC., AND OF THE LADYE MARYE, HYS WYEF, DOUGHTE OF YE FFAMOUS DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND, WHO DYED IN LUDLOWE CASTELL, YE 22ND OF FEBRUARI, 1574.' An adjacent monument to Edmund Walter and his lady, dated 1592, shews traces of a degenerate style creeping in, Time with his hour-glass appearing atop of the arch, with scrolls and pediments introduced by way of enrichments. This sort of funereal gear, so much in vogue at a later period, is well seen upon the eighteenth-century memorial to Theophilus Salwey, Esq., with its chubby, smiling cherub, placidly seated upon an hour-glass, and surrounded by skulls, bones, and such-like disjecta membra, a curious conjunction! Salwey, with equal mind, declares himself by the inscription, 'Pro Rege Sæpe, Pro Republica Semper.' The antiquary may discover much matter of this sort in the course of a stroll through St. Lawrence's church; but, not to pursue the subject ad nauseam, we will now sally forth into the town again, and continue our peregrinations. Before leaving the church, however, let us glance at the ancient font, a strange, archaic-looking stone vessel, large, plain and bowl-shaped, and bearing traces of the days when it did duty as a watering trough somewhere in the vicinity. Once more in the open air we turn towards the east end of the churchyard, where the ancient abode known as the Reader's House raises its old weatherbeaten gable beside the pathway; a delightful jumble of rough stonework, carved beams and dim, diamond-paned windows. The low portal, enclosing an ancient nail-studded door, is beautiful with rare old Jacobean carving, and a row of plain brick dwellings alongside contrast not unpleasingly with their venerable neighbour. * * * * * A terraced walk on the north side of the churchyard occupies the site of the old town wall, and embraces a fair prospect over the surrounding country, a goodly, fertile landscape, very pleasant to behold. In ancient times, before the Normans built their church on the site of the present edifice, a prehistoric tumulus occupied the western end of what is now the graveyard. From this monticle the town is said to acquire its name, the word Ludlow being derived from Leod-hlaw, the People's Hill, shewing the place is at least as old as Saxon times. [Illustration: Palmers Guild, Ludlow.] Of the 'fayre House' of the Palmers' Guild 'at the west end of the Paroche Churche-yard,' there are some scanty remains incorporated amidst more modern buildings, now not easy to find, nor yet very imposing when discovered. And as for the 'Hospitall or Almes-house of a 30 poore Folke,' built by one Hosyer in the year of grace 1468, and noticed by Leland, its place is now usurped by the gaunt red-brick edifice opposite the west front of the church. We now retrace our steps to the Butter Cross, calling to mind old Churchyard's lines on Ludlow: 'Who that lists to walk the Towne about Shall find therein some rare and pleasant things.' Yonder before us lies Broad Street, a spacious, respectable-looking thoroughfare still, if not as in Leland's time, 'the fayrest part of the Towne;' with Butcher Row under the pillars to the left, the Angel Hotel farther on, and the solitary survivor of Ludlow's seven town-gates spanning the lower end of the street. So down Broad Street we now take our way, pausing beneath the grim old archway to notice the grooves for the portcullis in its massive masonry. Two semicircular towers, jutting boldly forth, protect the gateway upon its outer side, and command the approach from Ludford Bridge. Sober, antiquated tenements cling like parasites around the ancient gateway, and the humble Wheat-Sheaf Inn thrusts out its bar-parlour window upon the site of the old town moat. A bowshot farther we come to Ludford Bridge; and, as in Leland's day, 'there be three fayre arches in this bridge over Teme,' though the 'pretty chapel upon it of St. Catherine' is now no more. Huge sparlings, wider than the bridge itself, afford tempting nooks wherein to linger and gaze upon the clear tide swirling past the bold cutwaters below, where house-leeks, ground-ivy and such-like wildlings, have made their homes in the crannies of the stonework. The view hence is delightful, look which way we will; trees, rocks, bustling rapids and deep, calm pools that reflect the sky, combining to form a scene of rural harmony. A picturesque old flour-mill and some dilapidated tanneries still cling to the bank hard by, though Peter Undergod's ancient fulling-mill is now a thing of the past, having been swept away in an unprecedented flood a dozen years ago. Beyond the bridge rise the church, the ancient manor-house and timbered cottages of Ludford, a fascinating spot; but Ludford lies without our province, in shire Hereford. So turning presently to the right-about, we leave upon our dexter hand the site of an Hospital, founded by Peter Undergod in King John's reign and dedicated to St. John Baptist, whereof the name alone now survives. Then, passing through Broad Gate again, we strike thence into a narrow lane running alongside the old town-wall. This brings us to Mill Street, near a row of humble stone tenements wherein Mr. Oliver Baker discovered, some few years ago, traces of old work dating back as far as the thirteenth century. These are supposed to be the remains of Barnaby House, a guest-house where, in mediæval times, pilgrims used to break their journey when travelling into Wales. Arrived in Mill Street, we make for the Grammar School, a long, low, whitewashed building relieved by dormer windows, and retaining, in a couple of two-light trefoil-headed windows and a wide arched doorway, relics of antiquity. It is a place of very early foundation, having been established by the Palmers' Guild in the thirteenth century, and afterwards made over to the Ludlow Corporation with the stipulation that they 'alwayes finde in ye same Towne, at their own charges, a free Grammar schole, with a schoolmaster and an Hussher, for the erudicion of youth in the Latine tonge.' Chartered by King Edward VI., the School, one of the most ancient in the Kingdom, still continues its useful and prosperous career. The Ludlow Natural History Society has a small but well arranged Museum near the top of Mill Street, which is replete with objects of interest to the antiquary and the naturalist. Here, in the district where they were originally brought to light, the famous fossils of Siluria may be studied; while birds, fishes, and shells of various kinds are well in evidence. Then there are the relics of bygone Ludlow, a curious olla podrida; here a rusty iron-bound deed-chest, there a quaint money-box with intricate lock; or something 'loathely and grim' in the way of torturing gear, such as the Branks shewn in the sketch at the end of the foregoing chapter, a horrid engine used for compressing the heads and branding the cheeks of malefactors. Upon the wall above the Museum door hang two big wooden balls, with a rope's-end attached to each. These were used in olden times upon Shrove Tuesday, when a kind of municipal tug-of-war took place. At either end of a long rope (whereof we here see the remnants) the men of Broad and Castle Wards confronted the champions of Corve Street and Old Street, each party endeavouring to pull their opponents over to their side of the town, until the end of the rope went into the Teme or the Corve, as the tide of contest swayed. The Butter Cross is once again our rendezvous. Passing thence towards the Bull Ring, we notice several fine old timber-framed houses, besides others that hide their charms beneath a disfiguring mantle of whitewash. Some of these ancient residences retain their handsome plaster ceilings, and oaken staircases with massive newels and twisted balusters. [Illustration: The "Feathers" Hotel. Ludlow.] The Bull Ring itself, where our 'rude forefathers' enjoyed the exhilarating sport of bull-baiting, is encumbered with some oldish houses, not bad ones of their kind. But such attractions as they offer are quite put into the shade by a beautiful half-timbered edifice which rises but a stone's-throw away, so thitherward let us now direct our steps. This is the Feathers Hotel, an ancient hostelry which, as may be gathered from our sketch, is a magnificent example of mediæval domestic architecture. Observe how the venerable house seems to 'stand at ease,' as it were, in these days of its ripe old age; its tall beetling gables and quaintly carved beams leaning this way or that, quite regardless of perspective. With what picturesque effect its diamond-paned oriel windows jut forth from beneath the deep-browed eaves, and the queer carven monsters ogle the passer-by from bulging bracket and beam end; and how charmingly the flowering creepers on the balcony relieve its grim old timbers. Upon stepping within we notice the letters R.I. on the lock-plate of the door; but whether this refers to King James I., or to Mr. Jones, the traditional builder of the house, we leave others to decide. The same letters reversed figure upon the beautiful carved oak chimney-piece in the coffee-room, which, with its elaborate plaster ceiling, intricately carved oak panelling, and low, lattice-paned windows, has quite a mediæval appearance. Hard by is another fine wainscoted chamber, where some visitor of bygone days has set his signet in the form of a family hatchment, duly 'erased' and 'impaled,' in true heraldic fashion. In point of historic interest, the record of this fine old hostelry is little better than a 'perfect and absolute blank.' But from the general style of its architecture, and the presence of the royal arms in its principal chamber, it has been conjectured that The Feathers was in some way connected with the Courts of the Marches, which played such an important part at Ludlow in mediæval days. Over the way stands The Bull, another oldfashioned hotel, with one of those large, rambling inn-yards, familiar to travellers of a bygone generation. Upstairs in the dining-room are preserved those 'armes in colours, sitch as fewe can shewe,' which, as we have seen, once graced the ancient castle chapel; and amongst them may be found the armorial bearings of many a one who bore a name to conjure with in the brave days of old. Thomas Lane, in the year 1674, established at Ludlow an alms-house for aged and decayed women. Its habitat in Old Street is still known as Lane's Asylum, a picturesque structure of timber and stone displaying the half obliterated letters E.C. upon a gable-end, and a date that looks like 1621. The house itself is evidently of great age, but has nothing of interest within, save and except an old coat-of-arms in the refectory, supported by the lion and winged griffin, and ensigned by a royal crown and the initials E.R. Of the Whitefriars Monastery, that 'fayre and costly thinge' which Leland noticed on the banks of Corve, scarce one stone has been left upon another; or, to speak more precisely, one solitary arch stands tottering to its fall. Being far gone into disrepair, the place was pulled down about a century ago, and its materials carted away to build pigstys and the like. In the same quarter is to be seen a group of ancient almshouses built by one of the Foxes of Bromfield, whose coat-of-arms, with the date 1593, appears upon the low grey stone façade fronting on the highway. Thus it will be seen that, hidden away amongst the nooks and corners of Ludlow town, there are many relics of ancient domestic architecture, such as lend a quaint, mediæval appearance to its older streets. The surrounding country, too, is equally favoured, for it is full of the charm of secluded, rural beauty; while rustic villages and smiling homesteads are to be met with on every hand. So now let us bid farewell to the pavements, and, taking to the leafy lanes, push forth again into the open country. [Illustration: A "Miserere" at Ludlow.] THE CLEE HILLS, CORVE DALE, AND WENLOCK EDGE. Away to the north-east, as we turn our backs upon Ludlow, appears a noble range of hills, whereof we have caught frequent glimpses during our peregrinations about the old town. And now, as we fare along through a pleasant, pastoral country, the dark, volcanic-looking crest of Titterstone Clee Hill looms grandly above the rolling woodlands that clothe his lower flanks. 'Cle Hills,' as Leland informs us, 'be holy in Shropshire. The highest Parte of Cle Hills is cawlyd Tyderstone. In it is a fayre playne grene, and a fountaine in it. There is another Hill a 3 Miles distant from it cawlyd the Brown Cle.' Geologically these hills are somewhat remarkable. A cap of erupted basalt crowns the summits of the Clees, having by its harder texture protected the hills from the effects of denudation, and preserved from destruction the underlying coal measures that now form the loftiest coalfield in Britain. Hence it comes to pass that, in these utilitarian days, the 'fayre playne grene and the fountaine' have given place to coalpits, and to those yawning stone quarries that yield the famous road metal locally known as 'Dhu stone.' Leaving the old timbered farmhouse of Dodmore upon our left, we descend into a pleasant vale, cross the Ledwych brook and bear away for Bitterley; following a narrow, unfrequented lane, with Titterstone making a brave show in the direction whither we are bound. Set amidst green summer foliage, Bitterley village looks attractive enough as we traverse its one quiet thoroughfare; but in winter-time, as the name suggests, the district is bleak and chilly: 'Bitterley, Bitterley under the Clee, Devil take me if I ever come to thee!' runs a rustic couplet that tells its own tale. [Illustration: The Haunted House, Bitterley.] At the farther end of the village we turn aside to examine an old, ruinous pile, rising forlorn and derelict in the midst of an adjacent meadow. Upon nearer acquaintance this proves to be an ancient, dilapidated edifice, in the last stages of decay. With its time-stained brick walls and crow-stepped gables smothered in untended ivy, the mullioned windows agape to every gale, and roof and chimneys tottering to their fall, the old place looks a haunted house, every inch of it, as our sketch will shew. A solid oak newel staircase 'corkscrews' upwards in a projecting turret, but, save a few remnants of elaborate stucco ornamentation above the fireplace in one desolate chamber, there is little or nothing to repay the risk of a broken neck. So, remarking certain traces of a moat in the meadow hard by (restored by 'artist's license' in the sketch), we now hie away through lanes and fields to Bitterley church. [Illustration: Cross at Bitterley.] Bitterley church and the old Court-house, with some noble trees in the foreground and Titterstone towering behind, make a pleasing rural picture as we draw near; and, upon passing through the wicket and entering the green sanctuary, we come in sight of the beautiful churchyard Cross shewn in the adjoining sketch. It dates from the Decorated period, the slender shaft rising from a flight of worn, mossy steps, and bearing aloft the four-sided head, or finial, in whose crocketed niches some mouldering fragments of sculptured work may still be discerned. This Cross is one of the finest of its kind in England. The church itself is of Norman origin, though much altered in later times. The best features of the interior are a fine arcaded Norman font, a curious old lectern and iron-bound muniment chest, and slight remains of a traceried oak roodscreen. Beyond Bitterley church the country opens out towards the unenclosed flanks of Titterstone Glee Hill: 'Those mountains of commande The Clees, like loving twins, and Stitterstone that stande Transevered,' --as the poet Drayton hath it. So, putting the best foot foremost, we have a lung-expanding tramp for the next half-hour amidst heather and waving brake-fern, winning our way at last to a fine view point dubbed the Giant's Chair. The outlook hence on a fine summer's day is a thing to be remembered. Wide and varied as is the prospect, the gem of it all, perhaps, is the charming bird's-eye view of old Ludlow town, down in the vale at our feet, its warm-grey towers and house-roofs nestling beneath the verdant slopes of Whitcliff, which in their turn are overtopped by the brindled heights of Bringwood Chase, stretching away towards the blue Welsh hills where the horizon meets the sky. [Illustration: Crow Leasow.] Having spied out the land from this lofty eyrie, we plunge down again through the breast-high bracken, and then, working our way by cross-country lanes, come presently to Crow Leasow. Crow Leasow is a substantial brick farmhouse dating from the early days of the seventeenth century. Its weatherbeaten front has some good moulded brickwork about the doorway, eaves and gables, and a bulky chimney-stack projects towards the northern end. The massive doors and thick beams and rafters of the interior look quite in character; while a gigantic oak tree, of enormous girth but hollow within, flings its vast limbs athwart the greensward before the entrance way. In bygone days Crow Leasow belonged to a family of the name of Shepheard, who lived here for five successive generations, and were probably the builders of the existing house. At Middleton village we find vestiges of a yet more antiquated dwelling, in the moated manor-place called the Brook House, whereof one half-timbered gable still survives. From a map made in 1721, the mansion would appear to have been in good preservation at that time, as the sites of a summer-house, a large walled garden and a bowling-green, are all marked upon it. Laying a course due west for Stanton Lacy, we have now to negociate some intricate byways athwart Hayton's Bent, a stretch of shaggy upland islanded, so to speak, in Corve Dale. Up through the woodlands we go, getting a fleeting glimpse of Downton Hall, standing in a lonely situation amidst a richly timbered park. Anon we strike into a secluded dingle--one of those 'Hopes,' as they are called, so characteristic of a Shropshire countryside, with a brooklet tinkling along through a tangle of undergrowth; while the carol of thrush, linnet and blackbird sounds blithely in our ears. Stanton Lacy itself is but a mile farther on; and through that quaint, quiet village lies our way to the parish church. Stanton Lacy church is a genuine Saxon edifice; indeed, it is considered to be one of the best examples of pre-Norman work in this country. Upon its outer walls appear the narrow buttresses built of long-and-short stones, and the rough, uneven stonework with its wavy coursing, that mark the Saxon period. [Illustration: Stanton Lacy.] In the north nave wall is the remarkable doorway shewn in the accompanying sketch. Here we find the long-and-short work both upon the jambs and the semicircular head, which is surmounted by a peculiarly shaped cross, and guttæ, or drops, like those found in classic architecture. Though now blocked up, this doorway is still in a good state of preservation. The church is cruciform in plan, its massive central tower grouping prettily amidst a setting of verdant foliage, when viewed from the south, with the porch standing prominently out, and some curious stone effigies of the de Lacys under low, cusped, mural arches. Inside we find traces of various styles and dates, with scraps of ornamentation here and there, such as the alternate shields and rosettes upon the otherwise plain stone font, and the little carved figures that look down from brackets on a beam of the chancel roof. A pretty legend tells how this church first came into existence. Milburga, the pious daughter of King Penda the Mercian, fleeing one day from the too pressing attentions of a certain Welsh princeling, managed to escape across the Corve, near where the church now stands, before her lover came up. Then the good lady vowed a vow that, if permitted to escape, she would build a church as a thank-offering; whereupon a mighty flood swept down the stream and effectually put a stop to all pursuit; and so it came to pass that the first church arose hard by upon the banks of Corve. So much, then, for Stanton Lacy church. In other ways, also, the place seems in bygone times to have been of some importance, for Anderson tells us that 'Stanton Lacy was free from hundredal subjection, and its seigneural lords claimed to have a gallows, to hold pleas of bloodshed and hue and cry, and an assize of ale.' Upon resuming the onward route we traverse a pleasant vale, the road following up the course of the Corve, with low, wooded hills on either hand, and the topmost crests of the Clees peering over their shoulders. Beyond the fine old timbered farmhouse of Langley the valley broadens out, and the good red soil of Corve Dale shews rich and ruddy where the ploughshare has lately passed, and ripening crops by the wayside add a zest to the general outlook. Anon we steer a due northerly course, with first a conspicuous Lombardy poplar, and then a curious-looking church steeple, by way of guide-marks. The village to which it belongs lies coyly aside from the highway, necessitating a slight detour, and the crossing of a brawling brook. Thus we come to Culmington, a bucolic-looking village with several good cottages of stone, timber and thatch; and the church, whose spire we have already observed, rising beside the meadows overlooking the Corve. Thitherward, then, let us now direct our steps. Though somewhat plain, the old church has several good features, and its curiously stunted broach spire is weathered and mildewed to a thousand tints. The rough, plastered walls of the edifice are only relieved by a few slender lancet windows, which are narrower and more sharply pointed than is usual, while one of them looks like what is known as a leper, or low-side, window. Very plain and simple too is the interior of the church, a dark oak roodscreen alone breaking the monotony of the whitened wall surfaces. A good Decorated canopy with ball-flower enrichment, an aumbry and piscina, some old carved oak pews, and the quaint memorial to a seventeenth-century Rector, are amongst the notabilia that come under our observation. A hedgeside inn at the end of the village now comes handy for rest and refreshment, both welcome enough to wayfarers who have borne the burden and heat of the day. Then after a sociable smoke and a chat with mine host anent 'the weather and the craps,' we proceed again upon our travels through the byways of Corve Dale. The road next takes an upward grade, and, approaching the foothills of Wenlock Edge, enters upon a rough, broken country, known in olden times as Siefton Forest. Anon we quit the main road, and, turning down a narrow lane, presently espy a large, handsome old stone-built mansion of the Tudor period, the ancient manor-house of Elsich. The front towards the road appears to have been considerably renovated, but the rearward aspect is much more antiquated-looking, a projecting half-timbered stair turret, roofed with thick stone slates, rising with charmingly picturesque effect above the last remnants of the moat. Elsich was during many generations the home of the Baldwyns, who are said to have first settled here in the reign of Richard II. The original house was probably built about the year 1545 by Richard Baldwyn, whose brother William was cupbearer to Queen Mary. Thomas Baldwyn, son of the last named, was committed to the Tower on suspicion of being implicated in a plot to liberate Mary Queen of Scots, and is said to have written the following inscription on the wall while in prison there: THOS . BAUDEWINE . JULIE . 1585 : AS . VIRTUE . MAKETH . LIFE . SO . SIN . CAUSETH . DEATH. Striking across the fields, we now cut off a corner and look in upon Corfton, where, beside a large tree-covered tumulus, we find a few scanty, very scanty, traces of The Mount chapel, a little old stone building of unknown antiquity, which, though now a mere featureless shell, was still in use, they say, as a place of worship within living memory. Another mile brings us to Delbury, or Diddlebury, to give the place its full title. Traversing a footbridge where a stream crosses the roadway, we make our way to the church, whose grey old stunted tower rises above the hamlet. [Illustration: Delbury Church.] Dedicated to St. Peter, Delbury church is a fascinating spot to the lover of old things, for the fabric bears the stamp of its first Saxon builders, while other hands in later years have added variety of style in pleasingly blended contrast. A large portion of the north wall, including the base of the tower, is pure Saxon work, built herring-bone wise inside, and of nicely squared masonry without. A blocked doorway shews the long-and-short construction, while high up in the wall is seen a small, semi-headed window, evidently as old as the wall itself. This window bears traces of having had an internal shutter. The old western tower, as may be gathered from the sketch, is a curious architectural jumble. Owing to superincumbent weight, the original arch of the west doorway has assumed a squat, horseshoe form, and a later but still ancient arch has been inserted beneath it. With its rough, timeworn buttresses, and dilapidated string-courses fringed with moss and splotched with lichens, this old tower looks exceedingly picturesque, and forms a capital subject for a sketch. Many quaint bits of carved work, both in wood and stone, come to light as we potter about the interior. In the chancel, upon a brass plate under the arch of the Easter Sepulchre, appears an inscription which runs as follows: M . S . CAROLUS . BALDWYN . DE . ELSICH : ARMIGER . HIC . SITUS . EST : OBIJT . 140 . DIE . FEBRUARIJ . ANO . DNI . 1674 : ANNO . �TATIS . SU� . 77. The Charles Baldwyn here referred to held Stokesay Castle under a long lease from Lord Craven, and his son Samuel was in command of the garrison there at the time of the Civil Wars. The north chapel here has been, from time immemorial, devoted to the use of the Cornewall family, of Delbury Hall. Regaining the highroad we get a pretty rearward view of Delbury, the tranquil hamlet with its low grey steeple nestling in a wooded vale, while lofty hills rise away in the background. Thence we push on for Munslow through an orchard country, where the landscape is brightened by the flower-laden trees whose fragrance permeates the air. A mile short of our destination, the Swan Inn, with its half-timbered gables, its worn stone steps and swinging sign, makes a comely show at the crossways; and presently after we find ourselves at the Crown Hotel, the old Hundred House of Stottesdon, on the outskirts of Munslow village. At The Crown, then, we will outspan awhile, for, situated in the very heart of Corve Dale, the house will suit us 'to a T' as a starting-point while exploring that locality; the more so that, as a rule, the Dale boasts little accommodation above the hedge-alehouse character. Munslow is a rather scattered village, whose cottages seem to be playing hide-and-seek with one another about a rough, out-cropping hill. As for the church, the place seems at first sight not to possess such an appendage, until, surmounting a steep rocky lane, we presently come upon it down in a secluded nook, embosomed amidst apple orchards, with the comfortable-looking parsonage house peeping out from a grove of trees. [Illustration: The Old Church Porch. Munslow.] Two or three dark yews and a curious wooden erection, apparently an old lich-gate, lend an air of rusticity to the churchyard. The beautiful old timbered porch shewn in our sketch is the most pleasing feature of the exterior: but the window tracery is worthy of notice, being of excellent though simple character, and original in treatment. The interior of the church has been a good deal renovated, but in one of the nave windows we notice a Virgin and Child in fourteenth-century glass, and a foliated cross cut upon the sill below. Some later glass in the aisle windows is remarkable for its quaint anagrams and inscriptions, and upon an old slab near by may be seen the following queer effort at rhyme: AO 1602: IN . TE . HOVVER . OF . HIS . POVVER . ONE . DEAD . BY . CHRIST . DOE . RISE . AND . VVEE . VVHOSE . BOANES . ROT . VNDER . STONES . OVR . DVST . HEEL . NOT . DESPISE . Some of the original pews in the nave are of massive old moulded oak, with geometrical patterns incised on their ends of earlier character than is usually found in such cases. Down past the church, from the westward hills, comes a lane that in any but the best of weather must be a mere mountain torrent, paved with the naked rock and overarched by ancient yews. Our way, however, lies through the fields, until, striking the Wenlock road, we diverge to the right, cross the river Corve by a footbridge, and threading our way through deep, sandy lanes, come presently to Tugford. This takes us past Broncroft Castle, a modernized, castellated residence, seated in a curiously out-of-the-way spot for such an imposing pile. [Illustration: Tugford Church.] With the ivy wreathing tower and porch, and moss and lichens encrusting its old plastered walls, Tugford church looks thoroughly in keeping with its secluded sylvan situation. Low down outside the chancel walls are certain arched recesses of unknown origin. The small blocked doorway seen in our sketch has a semicircular tympanum, carved in low relief, of evident antiquity; and a Norman arch with excellent mouldings is found inside the ivied porch. Internally, two curious, grotesque little figures are perched aloft on either side of this door. Across the west end, hiding a good pointed tower arch, extends the musicians' gallery, where, amidst dusty music scores and other disjecta membra, the old wormeaten band-stand may still be seen. From this same gallery might be heard, until comparatively lately, those mellifluous strains of flute, clarionet, melodion and all sorts of music, wherewith the 'rude forefathers of the hamlet' were wont to wake the slumbering echoes on a Sunday morning; indeed the present rector himself can still recall those 'piping' times. The very parish bier at Tugford boasts a respectable antiquity, as witnesses the inscription 'Bartholomew Lutley, Anno Dom. 1617,' carved upon it. From Tugford we climb by rambling footpaths to The Heath, a secluded, upland district, forming a sort of western buttress to the Brown Clee Hill. [Illustration: The Heath Chapel.] Emerging from a tangle of plantations, we traverse a few rough pasture fields and soon come to the Heath Chapel, a small, ancient edifice, standing all alone in a green meadow, with sheep browsing leisurely around its grey stone walls. Simple and unobtrusive as it is, this lowly chapel is extremely interesting to the antiquary, from the fact that it has remained practically untouched since the Norman builders brought their work to completion, seven hundred years ago. [Illustration: Interior of the Heath Chapel. Looking East.] The fabric consists of nave and chancel, and has a fine south doorway enriched with nook-shafts and chevron mouldings; while the walls are strengthened by the flat buttresses characteristic of that early period, through two of which, curiously enough, the east and west windows have been pierced. A plain string-course runs inside and out around both nave and chancel. Inside, the old oaken box pews, grey with age, remain in situ, their timeworn panels bearing touches of carved work and quaint iron hinges; the walls retain their coating of faded, mildewy plaster; and the whole wears an air of archaic simplicity, and immemorial repose. Upon the rough stone-flagged floor stands a plain, bowl-shaped font, evidently coeval with the building itself, while the beams of the open-timbered roof look almost equally primitive. The chancel arch is quite unadorned, save for a little carving upon the capitals. The altar table and rails around, though plain, are not bad specimens of their kind, and inside the western gable is suspended the solitary bell. As may be readily understood, the congregation here is at the best of times but a scanty one; indeed, it is said that in bygone days the parson, perceiving but 'two or three gathered together,' would sometimes adjourn the service to the snug fireside of a neighbourly farmer's kitchen! The wonder, indeed, is that a church should ever have been erected in such a sparsely-peopled, out-of-the-way locality. Well, let us now bid farewell to the Heath Chapel, not omitting to notice the old Gothic hinges upon its oaken door, now alas! bereft of that famous key which, if tales be true, was so fearfully and wonderfully constructed that the clerk alone could prevail upon it to 'open sesame!' The day proving fine and clear lures us onwards towards Brown Clee Hill, whose broad, bulky mass looms prominently, no great distance away to the eastward. In about a mile and 'a bittock,' after passing through a gate, we enter upon a wild, go-as-you-please sort of country, and clamber up the steep grassy vallum of Nordy Bank, a large Roman encampment in an unusually good state of preservation. The bank is very high and steep, with a ditch on its outer side, though much lower, as the custom was, upon its inner face. Hence a fine, wild glen comes into view, running up into the heart of the hills, Titterstone rears his dark craggy crest away to the right, and the Wrekin peeps over the shoulder of Brown Clee Hill, towards which we now bend our steps. Dropping to a sandy ford across a stream, we slant gradually away athwart the open furze-clad hillside, and then breast the rough, steep, rock-strewn bank, called Abdon Burf, which encircles the loftier of the twin summits of Brown Clee Hill. Perched up here beside the cairn, 1,792 feet above sea level, we look down upon every other height in all broad Shropshire; indeed, to find a rival to Brown Clee Hill, we should have to travel across the Welsh border. So let us now turn our attention to the spacious landscape which lies outspread around; a prospect that embraces the greater part of west-central England, and a good cantle of wild Wales to boot. Away towards the south-east rise the graceful peaks of the Malvern Hills, with the Cotswolds far beyond them. Then to the left are seen the Clent and Lickey heights, and the dingy pall of smoke overhanging the Black Country. Glancing athwart a number of inferior eminences, the eye is arrested by the great rounded dome of the Wrekin, unmistakable in its lonely isolation. League upon league extends the broad plain called Yale Royal, stretching far away into Cheshire, and blurred with a filmy cloud indicating the whereabouts of Shrewsbury: 'Far set in fields and woods the town we see Spring gallant from the shadows of her smoke.' The Berwyns come next, a pale grey stripe silhouetted upon the skyline, followed by the sharp-peaked Breidden Hills, on the farthest confines of Shropshire. Quite near neighbours by comparison seem the Stretton heights, Caer Caradoc, and the spiny Stiperstones; while over those rolling uplands we can faintly discern the topmost crests of Cader Idris, in Wales. Corve Dale, a chequer-work of ruddy plough lands and varied greensward, lies like a map at our feet, with the rough holts of Wenlock Edge fringing its farther side. Radnor Forest and the Black Mountains extend athwart the south-west, with perhaps a peep of the Brecon Beacons, mere shadows of a shadow these, upon the remotest horizon. Yonder away lies Ludlow, marked by its tall church tower; and, still following along the skyline, we descry the abrupt form of the Skyrrid near Abergavenny. Finally our neighbour Titterstone Clee thrusts his rugged cone aloft; a fine, dark, basaltic crag, around whose crest the cloud shadows love to linger; fitting throne for the giant who, in days of old, haunted those lonely heights. And overarching all this fair landscape spread the 'infinite shining heavens,' and the glorious architecture of the clouds; completing a picture worthy to be stored up in memory's garners for many a day to come. From the carnedd we make a bee-line down through broad reaches of heather, gorse, and wine-red bilberry shoots, flushing now and then a hawk or a curlew as we tramp along. Hugging the course of a lusty stream, we soon find ourselves once more at Tugford; whence by lanes and field paths we work our way back to Munslow, crossing the Corve at Beam Bridge, where the blacksmith plies his trade in a curious, nondescript structure, half smothered in ivy, built, it is said, as a memorial to some member of the More family who was slain upon foreign soil long, long ago. * * * * * In a retired nook of the hills, about a mile and a half, as the crow flies, from Munslow, lies the old farmhouse of Upper Millichope. [Illustration: UPPER MILLICHOPE.] The house is considered by connoisseurs to have been built in the twelfth century, and thus may claim to be the most ancient abode in Shropshire; in point of age, indeed, it probably has few rivals throughout the whole of England. The oldest, or western, wing of the building, is massively constructed of the grey limestone of the district, its walls being in places at least 6 feet thick, while the steep roof is covered with old moss-clad stone-slates. The original entrance was through the semicircular-headed doorway seen in our sketch, the arch whereof is enriched with hallflower ornament, as is that of a small round window of similar character alongside. The other windows in the lower story are very narrow, mere ceilets, or loops such as were used for archery, but are widely splayed within. Access to the upper regions was obtained by a stone staircase built in the thickness of the wall. This staircase, though now partially destroyed, bears traces of having been protected by no less than three doors between the basement and the room above. Owing to the reduced thickness of the west wall, the chamber on the first floor is larger than the room below. It is lighted by a pair of double windows in the northern and eastern sides, each window having an attached pillar with moulded cap and base, a projecting socket for inserting a beam across the window, and a stone seat, or bench, in the wall upon either side. This first-floor room was probably the living-room, or Solar, of the establishment. A small adjacent chamber is supposed to have been used as a chapel, or oratory. In the roof are one or two rickety, dust-laden garrets, long since deserted and given over to mice, spiders, and such-like small deer. Huge oaken beams support the floor of the Solar, and the internal walls are constructed of wattle-and-dab, now much fallen to decay. By a 'perambulation,' ratified in 1301, Edward I. declared Upper and Little Millichope disafforested, in common with other places in the same neighbourhood. In those days all this part of the country was a vast tract of woodland, known as the Long Forest; and Millichope was doubtless at that time the manor house, or hunting lodge, of the King's Wood-ward, or Forest-ranger. Even now the scenery about Wenlock Edge is wild and romantic; but in early times its thickly timbered dales afforded harbourage to robbers and outlaws, who, issuing from the tangled thickets, preyed upon passing travellers as they wandered through its devious, unfrequented trackways. Nor was it until the reign of Henry I. that a good road was made along the Edge, in place of the 'hollow way full of great, sharpe stones, and so narrow as scarcely to admit of two horsemen abreast,' which had formerly existed. [Illustration: Rushbury.] But to resume. From Millichope we may extend our ramble to Rushbury, a pretty village situated in Ape Dale, under the western slope of Wenlock Edge. Though nowadays so insignificant a place, Rushbury has some claim to be of ancient origin, for it appears probable that the station named Bravinium, on the Roman road from Magna to Wroxeter, stood here, or hereabouts; and it is worthy of note that a hill above the village is to this day called Roman's Banks. Rushbury church, too, bears traces of high antiquity, some 'herring-bone' work being visible upon the outer walls; while a noble hammer-beam roof, very massively constructed and black with age, lends distinction to the interior, and there are some good oak choir stalls and bench ends, with 'poppy-head' terminations. Retracing our steps to Corve Dale, we travel on by meadow paths in the direction of Holgate village, whose grey church tower, surrounded by trees, is seen upon a distant hill-top, a landmark to every wayfarer who journeys along the Dale. Wild saffron appears to be the bane of the pasture fields in this locality; but for us they are decked in the purple and gold of orchids and burnished king-cups, affording a charming scheme of colour. [Illustration: Northern Doorway. Holgate Church.] Holgate church is small, and has recently undergone a 'thorough restoration.' It boasts, however, a grand Norman south doorway, enriched by a triple series of arches displaying the boldly carved sculpture peculiar to that period. The font is evidently very ancient, the interlaced ornamentation around the bowl having a Celtic look, while the corners of the base are ornamented with rudely sculptured monsters. A grove of trees near the eastern end of the churchyard hides a lofty, moated mound; and just beyond that, incorporated with some farm buildings, is a large, circular stone tower, built of good ashlar masonry, and pierced with narrow loopholes of the regulation mediæval type. This is the only surviving fragment of Holgate castle, founded by Helgot the Norman in William the Conqueror's time. King Henry I., in 1109, honoured Herbert FitzHolgate with a visit; and six years later Richard de Belesme, Lord of Bridgnorth, held his court within these walls. Robert de la Mere, a subsequent owner, died while returning from the Wars of the Crusades. In the year 1222, one Thomas Mauduit obtained license for a weekly market at Holgate; while the Baron of those days had his own court and private gallows here! About the middle of the thirteenth century Holgate was alienated to Richard Plantagenet, styled the 'King of the Romans,' by whom it was conveyed to the Knights Templars. Not long afterwards the castle and demesne passed into the possession of Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells, and sometime Chancellor of England. In Leland's 'Itinerary' we read that 'Holgate castle standeth under Cle Hilles, hard by Corve Dale, a 6 miles from Ludlowe'; a sufficiently vague computation, about on a par with others that passed muster in those easy-going times. Holgate castle appears to have fallen into disrepair at an early date, being found utterly dilapidated in 1645. We now press on to Shipton, not failing to notice the fine Early English hinges upon its south door, as we rest in the porch at Stanton Long church. Approaching Shipton village, the old Hall of the Myttons comes in sight backed by green, wooded heights, making a delightful picture. [Illustration: Shipton Hall. Shropshire.] As was frequently the case at that period, Shipton Hall follows the plan of the letter E, and is a very dignified example of the builder's art as practised in Good Queen Bess's reign. Between the broad, gabled wings rises a slender stone tower; mullioned windows give back the glitter of the noonday sun, and tall, curiously twisted brick chimneys soar above the roof-tree. A quaint, oldfashioned garden forms a suitable setting to the mansion, whose silver-grey stone walls and ivied gables rise with charming effect above the flowering plants and creepers that adorn the balustrades in front. Close at hand is an old stone pigeon-cot, covered with a conical roof of thick, mossy stone tiles. This lordly dwelling was for many generations the ancestral home of the Myttons; having been devised by John Lutwyche to his cousin, Edward Mytton, of Worcester, in the year 1549, previous to which the Manor of Shipton had appertained to Wenlock Priory. The place does not appear to have figured much in local history, but was a veritable treasure-house of heirlooms and antiquities. Times have changed, however, and the tap of the auctioneer's hammer has dispersed these household gods to the four winds. As befits an abode of 'the quality,' Shipton Hall stands a little apart from the village, with the diminutive parish church nestling under its lee. Thitherward, then, let us now direct our steps. Shipton church is a building of various dates, and so far has remained untouched by restoration. At its western end rises a weather-boarded bell-turret, while a coating of roughcast of a bright salmon-red tint lends an air of cheerful distinction to the exterior. A plain Norman chancel arch, having a small arched aperture on each side, gives access to the chancel itself, built, as is recorded in Old English characters on a brass plate let into the wall, in the time of Queen Elizabeth: THIS . CHAUNCELL . WAS . REEDIFIED . AND . BUILDED . OF . NEWE . AT . THE . CHARDGES . OF . IOHN . LUTWICH . OF . LUTWICHE . IN . THE . XXXJ . YEARE . OF . THE . GRACIOUS . REIGNE . OF . QUEENE . ELIZABETH . 1589. The name of Mytton figures upon most of the monumental tablets on these walls. Some scraps of old painted glass may still be discovered in the window above the altar. A by-lane, running up beside Shipton Hall, brings us in about a mile to Wilderhope, a great, stone-built manor-house of the Tudor period, standing in a secluded spot amidst the woods and pastures of Hope Dale. Here in days of yore lived a family of the name of Smallman, a race that flourished in this locality during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Major Thomas of that ilk being the hero in a certain episode in connection with a spot called the 'Major's Leap,' whereof more anon. A spacious stone porch gives access to a large room now used as the farm kitchen, whose ceiling retains some elaborate plaster enrichments, the Tudor rose, portcullis, fleur-de-lys, etc., the letters I . E . S . U on a heart, and certain half-obliterated words, MAL . MEA . DEA . EST, thus they appear to run. Repeated here and there are seen the initials of Francis and Ellen Smallman, who about the year 1601 erected the existing mansion; and a small wainscoted chamber has T . S . 1, 1672, cut above its fireplace. We now hark back to Shipton: noticing a curious sort of grotto, or cavity in the limestone rock, as we pass through the village. Then Corfield is left behind, a place that gives its name to an old Shropshire family; and we get a peep at Larden Hall, an ancient seat of the Mores, pleasantly situated in a well-timbered park under Wenlock Edge. At Brocton the Feathers Inn affords opportune rest and refreshment; so, after a spell of dolce far niente, we presently strike across country to Great Oxenbold, where in bygone times the Priors of Wenlock had a grange, or residence. All that remains of the old place is now incorporated with a farmhouse; but the lancet windows of the chapel and the corbel-table above can be detected outside, while a piscina and aumbry, and the brackets that supported the chapel roof, are visible within; besides traces of a circular stone stairway leading down to the cellars, whose ceiling is ribbed with sturdy oaken beams. Evidences, too, are not wanting that a moat formerly surrounded the whole. Beneath overarching groves and moss-clad rocks lies our way from Brocton to Easthope; ferns and wildflowers decking the laneside, and rustic children lingering to gather posies, only to throw them aside, as children will, when some new fancy takes them. Before entering the village, Easthope church is seen, standing in a quiet nook a little aside from the roadway; a small, plain, roughcast structure, of thirteenth century date. From its southern side projects an old stone porch, and a timber bell-cot rises atop of the western gable, all very rustic and simple, and quite innocent as yet of restoration. Upon the porch door still hangs the 'sanctuary' ring; and the interior of the church (which is dedicated to St. Peter) has a very reposeful, old-world air about it, as though time stood still, year in, year out, within these hallowed walls. The stiff, high-backed pews have a little carved work upon them, with the following inscription: EDWARD . BALL . OF . LONDON . GAVE . THIS . PULPIT . & . PEWES . TO . THIS . PARISHE . WHEARE . HE . WAS . BORNE . IUNE . 28 . ANNO . DOMINI . 1623. [Illustration: Hour-Glass at Easthope Church.] Yonder is the old carved oak pulpit; and upon it hangs the ancient hour-glass, a relic of bygone days. As shewn in our sketch, the hour-glass is enclosed in a sort of cage, or basket, of wrought and twisted iron, from which projects a banner-like sheet of metal ornamented with nicely fashioned fleurs-de-lys, a heart, and the letters S, S, and surmounted by the figures 1662, indicating the year it was made. Hour-glasses were much in vogue amongst the Covenanters; but although one sometimes meets with the cage, or holder, in country churches, it is rare to find the glass itself in situ as we see it here. A plain, massive oak roodscreen spans the church, which, besides other antiquated features, has a 'leper' window with fifteenth-century hinge, a bowl-shaped font, and two good Queen Anne chairs in the chancel. A short mile out of the village stands Lutwyche Hall, the beautiful seat of the Bensons, charmingly situated in an umbrageous nook of the Edge, and surrounded by terraced gardens set about with noble forest trees. Though considerably modernized, the mansion is of ancient origin, as is attested by the date 1587 inscribed upon its front; and there is a rare old plaster ceiling in the entrance hall. The early British camp on a neighbouring hill was probably an outwork, linking up Caer Caradoc with Nordy Bank. Setting our faces toward Wenlock, we now follow a high-lying ridgeway road commanding fine views in the direction of the west. Anon we strike into one of the numerous footpaths that zigzag down through the woods, and make for a sort of cave, or rather cranny, high up in the limestone rocks of the Edge, amidst tumbled boulders and brushwood. This is Ippikin's Rock, the haunt of a robber knight of that ilk, whose deeds were famous in days of yore throughout all this countryside. Here, as the story goes, Ippikin was wont to foregather with his merry men all; issuing forth and levying blackmail on passing travellers, and hiding the stolen treasure in these rocky fastnesses, where the print of the knight's gold chain, it is said, may still be seen. Strange lights, twinkling like Will-o'-the-wisps at dead of night, struck terror into the hearts of the country folk as they gazed in fear and trembling from the rustic homestall, while Ippikin and his crew held high revelry in their unapproachable eyrie. Eventually Ippikin himself was slain, and his band dispersed, so that they troubled the King's peace no more. But if tales be true his ghost still 'revisits the glimpses of the moon,' and may be summoned from the vasty deep by anyone who cares to stand atop of the cliff at midnight, and cry three times: 'Ippikin! Ippikin! Keep away with your long chin!' Footing it merrily along the white ridgeway road, we traverse the watershed of the infant Corve, which babbles away hence towards a place called Bourton. A large old manor-house with a square stone columbarium is the most noticeable object at Bourton; unless, indeed, we except the parish church, a nondescript edifice encompassed by yew trees, overlooking the village upon the north. Presthope with its limestone quarries is left behind; and then, turning aside near a solitary toll-house, we soon come to a flat-topped rock on the crest of the Edge, known as the 'Major's Leap.' Tradition tells that, in the days of the Civil Wars, Major Smallman of Wilderhope was endeavouring to escape from a troop of Roundheads, when, finding himself hard pressed as he rode along Wenlock Edge, he took a desperate leap from the top of this rock down into the woods below. As luck would have it, a crab-tree broke his fall, though his horse was killed on the spot; and, under cover of the rocks and brushwood that abound hereabouts, the Major made good his escape to his own home at Wilderhope. Thenceforward, save the goodly outlook upon our left, there is little worthy of note until we draw near to Much Wenlock; and we seek in vain for a certain country inn which greeted the wayfarer in this wise: 'Now Robin Hood is dead and Gone, Step in and drink with Little John.' Descending from the uplands, our footsteps echo through the quiet streets of Much Wenlock as we trudge on to our journey's end, while the arrowy swifts are screaming around St. Milburga's tall church-steeple, and the waning daylight flickers slowly away beyond the hills on the western horizon. [Illustration: Hinge of Stanton Long.] WENLOCK, WROXETER, AND THE WREKIN. Seated in a basin-shaped valley, the town of Much Wenlock lies high on the hills, a statement which smacks somewhat of paradox, though the explanation is not far to seek. The fact of the matter is, the place occupies one of those upland vales, locally termed Hopes, so frequently found in this part of Shropshire. Much Wenlock is a town of very ancient origin, its earliest history centring around the venerable Priory founded by St. Milburga, daughter of Merewald, King of Mercia, towards the close of the seventh century. Its municipal history, too, dates far away back into the past. Before Henry the Third's time Wenlock already held its weekly market, and in 1468 Edward IV. granted the first charter of incorporation, so that Much Wenlock can justly claim to be one of the most ancient boroughs in the realm. And there is a story, though we know not if it be true, that the very first member who ever entered Parliament was the Member for the Borough of Much Wenlock! So let us now take a look at the old town, in the centre whereof rises the ancient Guildhall, 'buildid,' as an old record has it, 'over ye Prisonne.' Supported upon massive oak pillars, the upper story consists of timber and plaster, with gables and mullioned windows projecting at intervals, and a deep tiled roof over all. Upon one of these oak pillars you may still see the iron staples of the whipping-post, and under the arches hard by stand the old parish stocks. Upstairs we find the Court of Assize; the Bench surmounted by the Royal Arms, tempore 1589, and the Sword of Justice. Adjacent is the Council Chamber, a sombre apartment panelled with dark old oak, whose open-timbered roof bears the appropriate legend, JUDICIUM . VERUM . JUDICATE : ET MISERICORDIAM FACITE. Close at hand rises the parish church, dedicated to St. Milburga, a spacious edifice whose western tower is surmounted by a tall spire, a rather unusual feature in this locality. A fine Norman west doorway, masked by the tower built against it, is only one amongst several good features to be seen here. In the old parish register we find the following interesting record: 'Note that upon the 26 daye of June was service celebrated first in the Englysh tonge, anno primo Elizabethæ, 1559.' Upon leaving the church we round a corner beside a queer old timbered cottage, and, passing the site of the Bull Ring, come full in view of the tall grey gables of St. Milburga's ruined Priory; while a grim old stone watch tower, now off duty, is seen rising amidst a children's playground. Wenlock Priory arose from very modest beginnings. Originally a nunnery stood here, presided over by the gracious Saint Milburga, Wenlock's good genius. Three centuries later--just about a thousand years ago--the Danes overran all this part of Britain, which probably accounts for an ominous blank in the local records about that time. Earl Leofric, husband of the famous Lady Godiva, rebuilt the ruined church in the days of Edward the Confessor; but the place fell once more to decay, until, as William of Malmesbury relates, Roger de Montgomery took the matter in hand, and, about the year 1071, erected the nucleus of the present edifice. Of Earl Roger's handiwork, except perhaps the ruined Chapter-house, scarce one stone remains upon another; the slender pillars and pointed arches of the main fabric dating from about the beginning of Henry the Third's reign. The west front is much in ruins, but such features as remain, indicate that it was built during the Early English period. [Illustration: The Chapter-House & Prior's Lodging. Much-Wenlock.] Entering by the dilapidated west doorway, we see around us, springing from the clover-scented grass, tall fragments of grey stone walls, blotched with weatherstains, and tufted with ivy, gillyflowers and creepers; while flocks of pigeons flit from point to point, or nestle in the crannies of the masonry. These massive, lofty fragments convey, by their very isolation, a striking impression of the size of the minster, which must have been of cathedral-like proportions, and unsurpassed in the beauty and richness of its architecture. Indeed, the more closely we examine these beautiful and enduring structures, the greater grows our admiration for the cunning craftsmanship of those old monkish builders: 'Firm was their faith, the ancient bands, The wise of heart in wood and stone. Who reared with stern and trusty hands These dark grey towers of days unknown. They filled these aisles with many a thought, They bade each nook some truth reveal: The pillared arch its legend brought, A doctrine came with roof and wall.' Passing through a corner of the south aisle, now the only portion of the church not open to the sky, we enter upon a beautiful sunny courtyard, around whose velvety turf arise the grey, crumbling relics of the Priory buildings. Yonder upon the greensward appears the Lavabo, or washing-place of the monks; a circular stone structure, richly carved with subjects from Scriptural history. Beyond it rises the Refectory, an important element in a community which entertained on so lavish a scale; and farther to the left is seen the picturesque group of buildings that figure in the adjoining sketch. That long, low edifice, with its quaint, trefoil-headed windows, deep roof and half-timbered turret, is the Prior's Lodging of bygone days; most interesting in that its internal economy remains much as in mediæval times, though cleverly adapted to the needs of the nineteenth century. Through those round Norman arches, with their characteristic ornamentation and damaged effigy of St. Peter, we get a glimpse of the ancient Chapter House, roofless now, it is true, but otherwise in tolerable preservation. The walls of this fine apartment are broken up into arcades of interlacing tracery, each tier of semicircular arches being superposed upon the one below, giving all the effect of an arcade of pointed arches. The work on the southern wall is profusely enriched with carving, that on the opposite side being plainer, as though it had never been completed. [Illustration: Much-Wenlock.] There is much else to be seen, for, wander where one will about the tranquil enclave, some new beauty is ever revealing itself to the discerning eye; while the sweet, reposeful landscape enfolds the old ruins with its mantle of midsummer verdure. One pictures to one's self this rich and sumptuous monastery in the zenith of its fame and influence, the great Priory church with its crypt and chapter-house, its library, scriptorium, and picturesque Prior's Lodging. One seems to see the sober-liveried brethren plying their peaceful toil in cloister, garden and field, or attending to the crowd of strangers that daily throngs their gates; for whose benefit refectory and kitchen, vivaries, columbarium and well-stocked cellars, yield each and all their tale of good cheer to make glad the heart of man. Then, as nightfall draws on, the long dormitories fill up with way-worn travellers and pilgrims; while those in need of the leech's skill make their way to the hospital hard by. There are several good timbered houses dotted about the town, notably the one seen upon the left in the annexed view. This formed part of Ashfield Hall, an old abode of the Lawleys, which gave shelter to King Charles after the Battle of Worcester. The house afterwards became the Blue Bridge Inn, and has finally degenerated to a common lodging-house. In the High Street we notice an old chequered front, relieved by an open balcony, and inscribed: IOHN . AND . MARY . RAYNALDS . 1682. A still older tenement in Shineton Street is said to have been the original gaol-house of Wenlock; though its ancient Gothic doorway and traceried window have anything but a dungeon-like appearance. Some pleasant spots lie within a measurable distance of Wenlock. Quitting the town by the Broseley road, we glance up at the admirable little wrought-iron sign of the Raven Inn, as we proceed to Barrow. Our way lies past an ancient stone grange, now used as a stable and store-house; and a cottage farther on offers refreshment to the thirsty traveller in the form of 'lemon aid and jingre bier!' Then Barrow comes in view atop of a gentle rise, its old church tower peering over the straw ricks of a barton; while far away beyond the dark rolling woodlands of Willey Park spreads a rich, champaign country, bounded by pale Midland hills. Despite its small size, Barrow church proves interesting, having considerable remains of Saxon work both in the chancel and under the tower. This tower is a queer, bulky structure, rising in four diminishing stages, hoary and weedgrown, at the west end of the church; and a rather curious south porch and sundial keep it in countenance. Out in the churchyard, beneath a flat stone slab, rests all that was mortal of Tom Moody, the famous Whipper-in, who, when his hunting days were ended, was 'run to earth' at this spot in the year of grace 1796. A century ago, Tom Moody's was a name to conjure with in all this countryside; and tradition tells how his sporting comrades, determined to be 'in at the death,' gathered at the graveside to give their old friend a parting 'view-halloo!' [Illustration: An Old Inn-Stick at Broseley] Past a group of seventeenth-century Almshouses we travel on to Broseley, home of the Broseley Clays, beloved of fireside smokers. The town, with its mean brick dwellings, has a decayed look about it; but in one of the streets, outside a public-house, we chance upon a rare example of local wrought-iron work, which is illustrated above. 'Fight to the left at the cross-roads, and then you canna miss the way,' remarks a passer-by of whom we now enquire the route to Benthall. Dumpy, pot-bellied pottery kilns, bowered in flowering hawthorn, rise by the roadside, where the brilliant blue Borage is abloom in untended corners. A fine avenue of forest trees leads us to Benthall Hall, a stately freestone mansion of the sixteenth century, its mullioned windows and projecting porch making a goodly show in the landscape. Close at hand, its only neighbour, appears the parish church, a curious little whitewashed edifice, destroyed and rebuilt at the time of the Great Rebellion, when Benthall was held for the King. Its internal economy is a survival of the churchwarden period, down to the stiff, penitential box-pews, and the faded red curtains in the southward windows. In olden times an extensive tract of woodland, called the Royal Hay, or Forest, of Shirlot, covered the rough broken country lying to the south of Broseley. About the centre of this district lies Willey Park, the ancient demesne of the Foresters; an estate which has never, it is said, been bartered for filthy lucre since first it was granted by Henry II. to the Keeper of the Royal Forest. The Foresters of bygone days seem to have been a free, open-handed race, and keen sportsmen to boot. Tom Moody himself made his name famous amongst the fox-hunting squires and parsons, who rode to hounds in the train of my Lord Forester. Willey Hall, a solid, substantial stone edifice, stands atop of a gentle rise, overlooking a chain of lake-like pools embosomed amidst shadowy woodlands. Half a mile east, in a nook of the park, lies Willey church: near to which we notice a natural curiosity, an oak and an ash tree enjoying life on the co-operative principle by sharing a single stem between them. Thenceforward our way lies through a reach of old forest land, full of gnarled timber trees and carpeted with ferns--remains of Shirlot Forest. In the heart of these woodlands we come upon a tall, ruinous stone obelisk, known as the Shirlot Monument; whence, after traversing the gorse-clad uplands of Shirlot Common, we return in due course to Much Wenlock. * * * * * Road and rail keep fast company through Farley Dingle, the deep, picturesque defile, by which one descends from Much Wenlock to the vale of Severn. A brawling stream, as it winds adown the dingle, has been ponded in and set to drive some rustic mills upon its banks. About half-way down we come to a place called Lawley's, _i.e._ Lawless, Cross; recalling the wild times when outlaws took advantage of the fact that this spot, being on the debatable line between the franchises of Wenlock and Buildwas, formed a sort of No-man's-land, where the arm of the law scarce reached. Emerging from the hanging woods of Farley Dingle, a broad, fertile valley opens out before us, with the Severn rolling along through rich pasture meads, and the ivy-clad ruins of Buildwas Abbey seated beside its banks. So first for a bit of derivation. 'Build' suggests bieldy, or bield, the Scottish equivalent for sheltered, comfortable; and 'was' is a termination associated with a low, waterside situation, as for example Sugwas, near the river Wye, in Herefordshire. [Illustration: Buildwas Abbey.] After the manner of their cloth, those old Cistercian monks, who erected Buildwas Abbey, seem to have had an eye to the picturesque in locating their noble foundation. Rising amidst green, folding meadows, on the right bank of the Severn, the ruined Abbey forms the central feature in a beautiful, tranquil scene; and, set amidst rich, dark foliage, with the river rolling by, and cattle standing knee-deep in the shallows, has exercised the brush of many a landscape artist. Founded by Roger de Clinton, Bishop of Chester, early in King Stephen's reign, Buildwas Abbey is built in a plain, severe style, offering a striking contrast to its more elegant rival at Much Wenlock. It was the home of a wealthy community, owning, it is said, no fewer than nine granges in Shropshire alone. A beautiful cope, worked by the hands of Fair Rosamund, the Lady of Clifford Castle, was amongst the most valued chattels appertaining to Buildwas Abbey. The arrangement of the several buildings is simple enough. East and west extends the great monastic church, fairly intact still, though minus its roof; a cruciform edifice with substantial circular pillars, slightly pointed Transitional arches, and round-headed clerestory windows; while a massive tower of Norman date rises above the crossing. The choir is probably older than the nave, though the triple sedilia, with its pretty dog-tooth enrichment, is evidently not earlier than the thirteenth century. Towards the north one can trace the cloister-garth, where the Chapter House, with its groined roof and slender, elegantly-proportioned pillars, may still be seen. Beyond this lay the Abbot's dwelling, now a private residence; with its chapel, ambulatory, and noble dining-hall spanned by an open-timbered ceiling. In the vale towards the west lay the vivaries, or fishponds, fed by a stream that runs down from the neighbouring hills. At Buildwas Abbey, the monks of old kept alive the lamp of civilization in dark, mediæval days. 'Within these walls peace reigned; from their stately chambers ever arose the sound of prayer and praise; their gates were open to the pilgrim and the traveller; hospitality, and brotherly kindness, softened in many ways the harsh incidence of feudal custom.' Looking down-stream, as we stand upon Buildwas Bridge, we get a glimpse of that dun, smoky district, which, like the black patch on a Court beauty's cheek, seems to heighten by contrast the charms of the fair landscape around. [Illustration: Madeley Court.] In the heart of this dingy region stands Madeley Court, a large, rambling old manor-house of late Elizabethan, or perhaps early Jacobean, date. At the time of Domesday Survey, the Manor of Madeley appertained to Wenlock Priory; and in Edward the First's reign the Priors obtained the King's license to enclose a park from the neighbouring Forest of Mount Gilbert. As may be gathered from our sketch, Madeley Court is an extremely picturesque old pile; the quaint stone gatehouse in the foreground, with its turrets and mossy, stone-tiled roofs, contrasting pleasantly with the mellow tints of the ancient mansion beyond. The scene is, unfortunately, much marred by its grimy environment; and there is little to attract one in the interior of the dwelling, which is tenanted by several humble workmen's families. The pool at the rear is a relic of the Prior's fishponds, whence a stream ran away to turn the wheel at the Manor Mill hard by. Beyond the fact that it was used as a country residence by the Priors of Wenlock, but little is known about the history of Madeley Court. The Ferrars family, we believe, made it their home at one time; and in Charles the First's reign the mansion was in the hands of a stout old Royalist, one Sir Basil Brooke. In the grounds upon the west side of the Court stands a very remarkable sundial, or planetarium, probably as old as the house itself. It consists of a large block of blackened freestone, supported upon a low base, with cup-shaped holes scooped upon three of its sides. Each of these holes originally contained a dial, but the dials themselves have long since disappeared. This curious astronomical instrument, besides being used as a sundial, could, it is said, be also employed to find the position of the moon in relation to the planets. But to return to Buildwas. After passing the Abbey Hotel, a large, oldfashioned hostelry, well known to brethren of the angle, we have a delightful stroll by Severn side, with the ruins of Buildwas Abbey full in view across the water, and a lowly church peeping out upon the opposite side the way. Through a country where cornfields and pasture lands alternate pleasantly, we push briskly on into Leighton, a tree-shaded village seated beside a wide horseshoe reach of the Severn. Time out of mind has this noble demesne been an appanage of the knightly family which gives the place its name; indeed, there was already, they say, a de Leighton here when Henry I. came to the throne. The little church, close by the Hall, contains effigies of Sir Richard de Leighton, a fourteenth-century knight arrayed in full battle harness, and of Sir William and his lady, who flourished about a century later. Life, one would suppose, must be worth the living amidst these quiet, rural scenes; and several of the villagers who rest in the green churchyard have, we observe, well outrun a century ere they could tear themselves away. Vorwärts! Anon we descry Eaton Constantine, the 'Etune' of Domesday Book, a high-lying village held by Constantine the Norman at the rental of a pair of white gloves, valued at one penny! Richard Baxter, the puritan Divine, spent his early days up there, where his dwelling may still be seen. [Illustration: The Lady Oak, Cressage.] Passing by a timber bridge across the Severn, we travel on to Cressage; going near a very old manor-house now known as the Eye, or Island, farm. This pretty village near Severn side derives its Domesday name of Cristes-ache (_i.e._ Christ's-oak) from a tradition that the Gospel was first preached in this locality beneath the shade of an oak tree. This tradition is supported by the fact that a very ancient oak, in the last stages of decay, standing on the outskirts of the village, has from time immemorial been known as the Lady Oak ('Our Lady's Oak'), probably a mediæval perversion of the earlier Saxon name. Belswardine House, on the hillside overlooking Cressage, is associated with Judge Jeffreys, of execrable memory, who lived there for a time. Upon regaining the Leighton road we soon come to an elevated spot called Watch Oak, whence we get a rare view over the plain of Shropshire, and the towers and spires of the county-town, with the blue hills of Wales soaring far away beyond the border-land heights. Eyton village lies only a mile away now, on a hill overlooking the Severn. Eyton claims, we believe, to be the birthplace of that accomplished scholar and author, Lord Herbert of Chirbury. The remains of Eyton Hall are now incorporated with a farmhouse; it was built by Sir Thomas Bromley, one of the executors of King Henry the Eighth's will, and Lord Chancellor of England, in the last year of Edward VI. From the Bromleys the estate subsequently passed, by the marriage of Sir Thomas's heiress, to the Bridgman family. An obscure, winding lane, brings us in due course to the village of Wroxeter. Here we are on ground classic to the archæologist, for beneath our feet lie the ruins of Roman Uriconium. 'The site of this long-deserted town,' writes Professor Paley, in the _Nineteenth Century_ magazine, 'probably the most important one between Dover and Chester (London not even excepted, till the latter days of the Roman occupation), is of great extent, and it must have formed one of the chief places of defence against the turbulent inhabitants of Wales. Probably it was built as a precaution that the extremely strong position of the Wrekin should not be occupied by the enemy.' Towards the close of the fifth century Uriconium was overwhelmed by the Saxons; when the 'high-placed city of Wrecon,' as Llywarch-Hên, the old Welsh bard, styles it, was utterly destroyed, and reduced to a heap of ruins. In mediæval days these ruins doubtless fell a prey to the pious monkish builder, who was very busy about that period: and, as time still wore on, meadows and cornfields covered the forgotten site, and the countryman wondered to see the coins and curious ornaments turned up by his passing ploughshare. Thus matters remained until about the middle of the present century; when the Shropshire Antiquarian Society opened up so much of the ruins as funds would allow, though by far the larger portion of the 'English Pompeii' remains to this day a terra incognita. Some fine day, perhaps, this fascinating search will be renewed; for, in its glorious uncertainty, the quest for antiquities is like prospecting for gold. 'You can't tell anything about gold,' a digger once remarked, 'you're just as likely to find it where it ain't as where it are!' A green mound, running across country in a horseshoe form, marks the limits of ancient Uriconium. Of this wall, the only portion remaining above ground is a large mass measuring about 20 feet in height, by 3 feet or so in thickness, and constructed, as was usual in Roman work, with bonding-courses of thin red tiles, alternating at intervals with the small squared stones of the masonry. Traces of arches with lateral walls between them are visible upon its southern side; and somewhat farther from the wall, on the south, or 'city' side, may be seen the massive substructure of a building considered to have been the Basilica, or, perhaps, Government Hall, of the town. Close at hand appears an elaborate system of hypocausts and tiled flues that supplied the hot baths, all in a very fair state of preservation. Several skeletons were discovered in this portion of the ruins, besides a number of coins, whose superscriptions gave a clue to the date of the city's destruction. A hut near the entrance contains many interesting objects brought to light in course of the excavations. But for the finer, more perishable objects found here, we must go to the excellent Museum at Shrewsbury, where one may study at one's leisure the countless articles of household use, personal adornment or what-not, that speak, more eloquently than any description, of the everyday life of Uriconium, sixteen hundred years ago. The Watling Street, that great military highway of the Romans, passed through the city of Uriconium on its way from London to North Wales. Another Roman road went southwards from the city; running viâ Church Stretton, Leintwardine and Kenchester, to Abergavenny in Monmouthshire. [Illustration: The Ruins of Uriconium, and Wroxeter Church Tower.] We now retrace our steps to Wroxeter, and, crossing the line of the ancient fosse, soon come to the parish church. Its tall, picturesque-looking tower is relieved by ornamental string-courses, and small niches with figures in them; while queer, uncouth gargoyles project from the angles, as may be noticed in the sketch. Wroxeter church was originally a collegiate foundation, with four resident priests, and a chantry dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. In 1155 William FitzAlan, Lord of Wroxeter, presented the church to the monastery of Haughmond, to which it continued to belong until the Dissolution. From the Normans onwards, many builders have left their impress upon this fine old fabric. Good Norman windows and a doorway of the same period occupy the south wall of the chancel, where are several table monuments, of which the most interesting, perhaps, is that to Sir Thomas Bromley, whose house we have lately noticed at Eyton, and an elaborate table-tomb, with effigies of Sir Richard Newporte, and Dame Margaret his wife. An ancient register chest in the vestry has its surface traceried over with elaborate ironwork. The font is curious, being fashioned from a Roman capital; and various architectural odds-and-ends of Roman origin are preserved in a garden adjoining the churchyard. Even the pillars on either side the gateway, seen in our sketch, are treasure-trove from the buried city. [Illustration: ATCHAM.] Farewell now to Uriconium, and to Wroxeter, its offspring, with their time-honoured associations. Along the old Watling Street lies our way, until, entering the Salop road, we cross the Bell brook near the site of the Roman wall and trudge on past Attingham, serenely seated amidst its broad demesne, with rich pastures and umbrageous woodlands spreading away on either hand. Traversing Tern Bridge we presently come to Atcham, a trim, well-cared-for-looking village, with a fine old church close by Severn side, a handsome balustraded bridge spanning the broad river, and memories of Ordericus Vitalis, the historian of William the Conqueror, a native of Atcham. Dedicated to St. Eata, Atcham church is built of a reddish stone, supposed to have been brought from the ruins of Uriconium. It has a seventeenth-century timbered porch, and a fine traceried oak roodscreen, brought, we believe, from Worfield church; while the carved panels of the oak lectern illustrate the parable of the Prodigal Son. The only monument worthy of note is that of Jocosa Burton, an incised slab brought from Old St. Chad's, Shrewsbury, and dated 1524. In one of the south nave windows we notice some good stained glass representing Blanch Parry, one of Queen Elizabeth's gentlewomen, kneeling at her mistress's feet, with the Parry arms and an inscription recording her death in 1589. This glass was brought from Bacton Church, Herefordshire, where Blanch Parry's fine monument is still to be seen. It was illustrated in 'Nooks and Corners of Herefordshire,' some few years ago. Crossing the bridge, we obtain a good view of the church reflected in the placid river; and thereafter we stretch away along the Watling Street, Rome's grand Prætorian thoroughfare of days gone by. Presently Uppington and its ruined castle appear upon our left, looking across Tern river to Withington, where the curious church brasses are. By-and-by we come to Hay Gate, where, as the name suggests, we enter upon the 'Royal Haye of Wellington,' a tract of woodland emparked by the Normans from the Forest of Mount Gilbert. This forest was formerly very extensive, spreading over more than one of the old Domesday Hundreds; and it was not until John's reign that a charter was obtained to disafforest the district. So now, with the smoke of Wellington lurking upon the rear, we set our faces southwards, where the dark wooded flanks of the Wrekin swell upwards to meet the sky. Geologists tell us the Wrekin is the oldest mountain in England; and, as the typical hill of our county, it has given rise to the time-honoured Salopian toast, 'To All Round the Wrekin.' Folk-lore, too, has had its say anent this famous hill. 'The Devil,' so the story runs, 'had an old spite against Shrewsbury, so he determined to bring a flood upon it: he would stop up the Severn! For this purpose he came with a great spadeful of earth; but, outwitting himself, as many of his children do, he lifted more than he could carry. Presently he became fatigued upon his way to the river, and let some of the mould fall--that is the Ercal (a smaller hill adjoining the larger). Then he upset it all--and that is the Wrekin.' Beneath the hanging woods of Ercal lies our onward way. After passing Buckatree, _i.e._ Buck-i'-the-Tree, Hall, we traverse a shady dingle, and tackle the climb to the summit of old Wrekin himself; an exhilarating pull beneath whispering fir-trees, and by grassy glades carpeted with soft moss and springy pine needles, glimpses of blue distance between whiles whetting one's appetite for the good things to come. Nor is the scene wanting in animation, the ubiquitous lover and his lass figuring prominently in every prospect: for Wrekin's brow is a favourite haunt of picknickers and holiday folk from all the Midland parts. From 'Hell's Gate' we ascend to 'Heaven's Gate,' and so win our way to the brow of the Wrekin, 1,335 feet above the sea. 'There is on the Toppe of this Hill a delicate plaine Ground, and in this plaine a fayre Fountaine,' wrote Leland, the antiquary, long ago. No water is to be found there now except such as collects, from time to time, in the 'Raven's Bowl,' a cup-like depression on the top of a conical outcrop of rock, known as the 'Bladder, (or Balder's) Stone.' At the foot of this rock there is a deep, narrow, crooked cleft, yclept the 'Needle's Eye.' Now the fable goes that, if any young maid dips her foot into the Raven's Bowl, and then 'threads the Needle's Eye,' by scrambling through the cloven rock, she will be married within a twelvemonth, 'so sure as there's acherns in Shropshire.' Owing to an isolated situation, the Wrekin commands a better all-round view than some of his loftier compeers. To merely chronicle a lot of remote hill-tops would, however, convey but a bald impression of a scene which owes so much to atmospheric effect; so we will only remark that the prospect embraces hills so wide asunder as Axe Edge, near Buxton, and the Brecon Beacons in South Wales; Cader Idris, above Dolgelly, and Bardon Hill in Leicestershire--'a delightfully awful prospect,' as someone has quaintly described it. A goodly cantle of Shropshire lies at our feet, like a map unfurled on a table; its heights and hollows beautifully diversified by cornfields and orchards, verdant pastures and ruddy plough-fields; while in and between the green hedgerows are seen, like the meshes of a huge net. Towards the east, the landscape is sadly marred by the smoke of the Shropshire coalfield; so we turn to the opposite quarter, where the Wrekin, falling away by Primrose Hill, bathes his feet in the silver Severn. Yonder in the vale we can just descry the ruined Abbey of Buildwas, with Wenlock church-steeple peeping over a neighbouring hill. That high-lying village away to the left is Little Wenlock, 'Wenlock under the Wrekin,' as it was anciently called. After 'boxing the compass' in a final farewell glance, we bid adieu to the Wrekin, and plunge downhill again by way of 'Hell Gate'--facilis descensus Averni--until by-and-by we come to Wellington, a place that, from the diminutive 'vill' of King John's days, has grown to a smoke-begrimed mining centre, with little attraction for travellers, like ourselves, in search of the picturesque. But near the Watling Street, about a couple of miles away, we find 'metal more attractive,' in the form of a fine old timbered manor-house, called Arleston. The date 1614, upon one of its gable-ends, is probably not that of the main structure, which looks considerably older. There are some very fine plaster ceilings inside, with fruit and foliage elaborately interwoven amidst scenes from the chase, etc., and curious plaster pendants. A small painted figure, let into the wall, is said to represent King James I. In olden times Arleston was used as a hunting-box by the Lords Forester; when, no doubt, it was a place of some consequence. It is now occupied as a farmhouse. [Illustration: The Sign of the Raven. Much-Wenlock.] TO LILLESHALL ABBEY, TONG, AND BOSCOBEL. From Wellington, a short spin by train brings us to Donnington station. Here we alight, and, running the gauntlet of some grimy ironworks, we strike into a cross-country road and make for Lilleshall Abbey. Anon we espy the graceful ruins, overtopped by a wooded hill, with the stately grey façade of Lilleshall House shewing up well amidst a setting of luxuriant foliage. [Illustration: Lilleshall Abbey. Shropshire.] Turning across the meadows, we now make the best of our way to the old ruined Abbey. The most striking feature still remaining is the rich, late-Norman portal of the west front, which, with a fragment of one slender, ivy-clad tower, figures prominently in our sketch. A beautiful Norman doorway, with bold chevron ornamentation upon pillars and arch, gives access to the choir, the oldest portion of the edifice. Eastwards extends the church devoted to the monks; westwards, the people's church, built at a later date. To the south, around a square cloister court, rise the ruins of the monastic buildings, the chapter-house, the parlour, the refectory; and beyond these again lay the large fishponds, the dovecot, etc. All is now far gone into a state of ruin and decay, over which Nature has spread her mantle of luxuriant ivy; while wind and weather have combined to add their softening touches. Set in the midst of a green, tranquil landscape, 'the world forgetting, by the world forgot,' this venerable pile seems redolent of memories from dim, mediæval days, when life went forward in quite another fashion from these hard-driven, high-pressure times. From an excellent local handbook by the late C. C. Walker, Esq., we glean the following particulars anent the history of Lilleshall Abbey. 'The Convent of the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Lilleshull' was founded, about the middle of the twelfth century, for monks of the Order of St. Augustine; Philip de Belmeis, Lord of Tong, being the first Patron of the monastery. The establishment received charters from more than one of our Kings, besides gifts and benefactions from many pious donors. Yet, in spite of all these riches, the worthy Abbots had much ado to make both ends meet, so great was the host of needy pilgrims that daily came clamouring at their gates, as they journeyed to and fro along Watling Street. By-and-by came the Dissolution; when the monastery was abolished, the Abbey lands leased to Sir William Cavendish, and the reversion of the whole demesne sold by Henry VIII. to James Leveson, of Wolverhampton, ancestor of the Dukes of Sutherland, in whose family the estate has continued ever since. About a mile west of the Abbey ruins, at the foot of an abrupt, rocky hill, whence the place takes its name, stands Lilleshall village, with its ancient parish church. Lilleshall church, as we now see it, dates from the early part of the thirteenth century; having in all probability supplanted an earlier structure, whereof the font, a very old stone vessel carved in a primitive manner, is perhaps the only survival. In the grounds of the old Hall, a stuccoed, gabled house at the entrance to the village, is a large pool, or lakelet, whose waters formerly served to turn the wheel of the Abbey Mill mentioned in Domesday Record. Lille's-hill, the Hill of Lilla, the Saxon, stands but a bowshot off from the church. Rising amidst a flattish country, it commands an extensive panorama in the direction of the west; though itself of so modest a height that the bulky obelisk, to some defunct Duke of Sutherland, with which it is crowned, seems quite to dwarf the monticle. [Illustration: Shiffnal. Shropshire.] Due south, as the crow flies, from Lilleshall Abbey lies Shiffnal, a little old market town, whither we now betake ourselves. Emerging from the mirky Shropshire coalfield, the train runs near the ruins of Malins Lee chapel, a diminutive edifice of early Norman date; and then, passing over a tall viaduct, gives us a bird's-eye view of red-tiled roofs and a ruddy sandstone church, as it enters Shiffnal station. Whether or no owing to the warm, mellow tints of these antique buildings, there is a kind of homely air about this quiet townlet; and its principal inn, the Jerningham Arms, is a model of what a country inn should be; though, like some members of the fair sex, it conceals its real age, being much older than the date 1705, inscribed upon the front, would lead one to suppose. There are several ancient houses dotted about the town, of which a good coup d'oeil is obtained by taking one's stand beneath the big railway arch that spans the High Street, whence our sketch was taken. Notice the substantial-looking house upon the left, a very old building with an early eighteenth-century brick front, and quaint, glazed turret atop. Beyond it is seen a group of half-timbered gables, with carved bargeboards, brackets and moulded beams; while a smaller house of similar character keeps them in countenance across the way. [Illustration: Shiffnal Church.] St. Andrew's church, a fine, cruciform structure, begun about 1180 A.D., rises beside the Bridgnorth road, on the western flank of the town. From its southern side projects a wide stone porch, with a curious chamber, called a parvise, above it. Enshrouded by dark yews, and with the old, weatherworn tower soaring overhead, this porch makes an excellent study for the artist's pencil. Within, the church wears a somewhat sombre air, owing to the rich, subdued colour of its ancient masonry. The nave is covered by a handsome hammer-beam roof; while four lofty, elegant arches span the crossing beneath the central tower. Eastward of the crossing we get a glimpse of the original Norman chancel arch, with a bit of carved work above it; and the tracery of the east window, though simple, strikes us as good in style. Beneath an arched recess in the north wall of the chancel lies the figure of a tonsured priest, cut in stone, with the following inscription: HERE . LIETH . THE . BODY . OF . THOMAS . FORSTER . SOME . TIME . PRIOR . OF . WOMBRIDGE . WARDEN . OF . TONGUE . & . VICAR . OF . IDSALL . 1526: Idsall, it may be observed, is the olden form of Shiffnal, and Tongue is the modern Tong. A couple of instances of longevity in connection with this place are too good to be missed. Born at Shiffnal in 1590, William Wakley was buried at Adbaston in 1714, aged 124. Mary Yates, another veteran, lived to the ripe old age of 127 years. She is said to have walked from Shiffnal to London when only seventeen, just after the Great Fire of London, in 1666. Southward from Shiffnal the infant Worf ripples along through a quiet, agricultural country; with a number of old paper mills strung along its course like beads upon a string, and villages and country seats dotted about on the neighbouring uplands. Overlooking this pleasant vale rises Brimstree Hill, an admirable view-point within easy strolling distance from Shiffnal. 'Mornin', sirs,' says a carter, giving us the sele of the day, as he stops to breathe his team on the brow of the hill. 'Come to look about yer, like? There's many a one I've seen a-standin' here, same as you be, to look at the country yander. It's bin plaguey whot a-comin' up the bank, but we shanna be long now afore we gets to th' Horseshoe.' So, accepting this pretty broad hint, we drop a coin into friend carter's ready fist, and, turning over an adjacent stile, proceed to spy out the land. And well worth coming to see it proves, for, though our present elevation is but slight, it gives us an outlook over a lordly landscape. As George Borrow very aptly remarks, 'What a beautiful country is England! People run abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their own behind unknown, unnoticed, their own, the most beautiful!' Returning to Shiffnal, we proceed thence towards Tong: traversing a broken, undulating country chequered with woodlands, sandy warrens and cornfields, where the young wheat is shot with the scarlet gleam of the poppies. In yonder meadow haymaking is in full swing, the women's aprons fluttering to the breeze, the high-piled waggon half smothered beneath its big, sweet-scented load, and some labouring men resting under the hedgerow. Rooks are swaying hither and thither in the wind, and clustering about the tops of the tall elms in the foreground--altogether one of those breezy, rural scenes, that David Cox and John Linnel knew so well how to portray. [Illustration: Tong Castle.] Presently we traverse a secluded dingle, with regiments of foxgloves standing sentinel along the laneside, and ferns and wildflowers galore draping the glades beyond. Then, approaching our destination, the country opens out, revealing a richly timbered vale where silvery meres meander in long, still, reed-fringed reaches, and swans sail to and fro amidst the water-lilies. Hence we get a charming peep of Tong Castle, a large stone mansion of curiously bizarre architecture, with an old tree-begirt pigeon-house mirrored in the placid waters of the mere. The original castle had a venerable history, if we are to credit the following tradition. Once upon a time Hengist, the Saxon, having aided King Vortigern in his wars, was offered by that monarch as much land as an ox-hide would enclose. Thereupon the wily Teuton hit upon the device of cutting an ox-hide into narrow strips, wherewith he enclosed a goodly cantle of land, and upon it built Tong Castle. [Illustration: Tong Church.] Now Tong Church is seen ahead, crowning the brow of a gentle rise, with the ivy-clad ruins of the ancient 'College and Almose House,' stretching down towards the mere below; a place which, as John Leland tells us, was 'an Auncient Foundation of the Vernons of Haddon in the Peke.' In 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' Charles Dickens has given us this fascinating glimpse of Tong Church. "See--here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; "and that old building close beside it is the school-house, I'll be sworn." It was a very aged, ghostly place; the church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing; while other portions of the old building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled with the churchyard earth, and overgrown with grass.' 'They admired everything--the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very weathercock: the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away.' Though perhaps the old church is not now in quite so picturesque a state of decay, this description holds good in the main to-day; and our sketch may convey some idea of its outward appearance. [Illustration: At Tong Church.] Upon stepping within we discern, by the 'dim, religious light' that filters through traceried windows, a venerable interior crowded with sculptured tombs, old gothic screens and curiously carved stall work; all so richly wrought in alabaster, wood and stone, as to repay the closest examination. The Vernon and Pembrugge tombs, indeed, are considered the finest of their kind in Shropshire, and a detailed description of them would fill a good-sized volume. A 'leper's' door gives access to the vestry, which contains a library of rare old tomes, stoutly bound in faded parchment; and a wonderful piece of ecclesiastical needlework, wrought by the nuns of Whiteladies, Heaven knows how many years ago. [Illustration: A Treasure from Tong.] Then there is the beautiful Cup, or Chalice, which figures upon this page. This Cup, which is probably of foreign workmanship, is of silver-gilt, richly chased with delicate, scrolly patterns, and a small leaf ornamentation around the middle part, which has crystal in lieu of glass, and lions' heads upon the three upright supporters. The top is formed as a removable lid, and is surmounted by a small knop; and the base is relieved by scrolls, and boldly emphasized mouldings. Authorities differ as to the use which this interesting and unique Cup was originally intended to serve; but it has been suggested that it was either a 'ciborium,' to contain the reserved sacrament, or a 'monstrance,' for displaying the sacred wafer. It was presented to Tong church by Lady Eleanor Harries, about 1625, but is supposed to have previously belonged to the old College established here by the Vernons in the fifteenth century. [Illustration: Sir Arthur Vernon.] The Vernon Chantry, or 'Golden Chapel,' as it is called, forms a small but richly ornamented annexe on the south side of the church. It was 'ffounded,' as an inscription attests, by Sir Henry Vernon, in 1515, and contains, in a niche upon its western wall, a curious half-length stone effigy of Sir Arthur Vernon, sometime Warden of Tong College, to whom there is a brass upon the floor. At the opposite end of the chapel is the ancient altar stone, with the five consecrational crosses incised upon it. Having paid a visit to the Great Bell, one of the 'lions' of Tong, and glanced at the quaint bellringers' 'Laws' set up in the tower, we now bid farewell to Tong church, and, traversing the tranquil village, pause at the lodge-gate of Tong castle to examine the fantastic devices carved upon its stonework. Then, with the sunshine lying broad on copse and meadow, we set forth anew into the country lanes; and soon espy an old sandstone quarry choked up with nettles and bramble bushes, whence, as one may suppose, the masons drew their stones for the building of Tong church. By-and-by a secluded lane receives us, a lane so grass-grown and untrodden, that haymakers are busy making hay upon its long green track. [Illustration: Hubbal Grange, or Penderel's Cot.] Thence without meeting a soul en route we come presently to Hubbal Grange, or Penderel's Cot, as it is sometimes called; a lonely cottage, with some signs of age about it. Indeed, by all accounts, the place seems to have been little altered since King Charles II., in the guise of Will Jones, the woodman, journeyed hither on his wanderings; and was befriended by Dame Joan Penderel, the mistress of the house, and by 'Trusty Dick,' her son. From Hubbal Grange we get a direction for Whiteladies. 'It isn't a very gain road for a stranger to find,' says the mistress of the cottage, 'but there's huntin' wickets all the way. Keep along by th'urdles, and follow the rack under th'ood, and you'll find a glatt in the hedge as'll lead you down to the brook, just by a bit of a plank-way.' So off we set across country, coming after awhile to an ivy-clad ruin, standing in a secluded spot under the lee of a wood. Giving this the go-by for the present, we now traverse the wood and hasten on to Boscobel; leaving upon our left the tree crowned monticle, where Cromwell's troopers entrenched themselves to overawe the neighbourhood. [Illustration: Boscobel House.] Anon the old Manor-house, or Hunting-lodge, of Boscobel comes in view, with the royal oak in the foreground, and a belt of dark woodlands beyond; a scene ever memorable in English history as the refuge of the unhappy Charles II., after his flight from Worcester field. Everyone is familiar with the incidents of that romantic drama; how King Charles took to flight, with Cromwell's riders hard upon his heels; how, disguised as Will Jones, a simple peasant man, he wandered through Brewood Forest, with the trusty Penderels to guide the way; how the royal fugitive took up his lodging in the hidie-holes of Boscobel House, until, the hue-and-cry waxing ever more close and keen, the King was at last forced to seek a precarious refuge amidst the branches of the now famous oak, while the faithful Dame Joan 'gathered sticks, and diverted the horsemen from the oak his majesty was in.' This oak tree, or rather a scion of the same stock, rises in a meadow a few hundred yards south from the house, the observed of all observers when tourists come a-sight-seeing to Boscobel. The pros-and-cons of its pedigree have proved a fruitful topic of debate among the learned in forest-lore, and the question is likely to remain sub judice for many a day to come. So having made our salaam to 'King Charles's Oak,' we now repair without more ado to the ancient Manor-house itself. [Illustration: Boscobel.] Opening a green door in the boundary wall, we find ourselves in a quaint, oldfashioned garden, with formal parterres and neatly paved pathways, where, traced in white pebbles, we decipher the half-obliterated legend ... QUINQUE . FRATRUM . DE . STIRPE . PENDEREL . or some such words as those, and the date 1651. Atop of a raised bank in the corner yonder stands 'the pretty arbour in Boscobel Garden, which grew upon a mount, where his Majesty spent some time of the Lord's day in reading, and commended the place for its retiredness.' Very picturesque and sequestered the old Manor-house looks as we draw near, with its barns and outbuildings, and goodly array of haystacks in the barton. What tales could the old place unfold, were it but endowed with the gift of speech to describe the stirring scenes it has witnessed in days of yore. Deep within that huge chimney-stack was concealed a secret stair, whence, in times of stress, a fugitive could escape from the house through a door disguised beneath the ivy; while the windows above are not windows at all, but mere painted imitations. But let us look within. We first enter the 'parlour or music room,' a large apartment with wainscoted walls, and moulded oak beams in the ceiling, and a rather curious black marble chimney-piece. Though considerably modernized, it is a handsome room enough; and upon its walls hang oil portraits of Charles II. and Oliver Cromwell. Dame Penderel Anno Dom 1662. Thence we pass on into a small panelled chamber, used by the King as a study, or private oratory. It is draped with faded tapestry, and contains a copy of a remarkable portrait of Dame Penderel, whereby 'hangs a tale.' An old canvas, which for many years had been used as a 'drawer' for a kitchen fireplace, proved, upon being cleaned, to be a portrait of Joan Penderel, mother of the young men who assisted King Charles in his escape. It was probably the work of some local artist, and bears the inscription DAME . PENDERIL . ANNO . DOM . 1662. A glance at the portrait will shew a countenance full of quiet dignity and character, surmounted by a queer, peaked, gipsy hat, a white coif falling around the face, and the red rose held between thumb and finger. Upon the floor of this chamber stands an ancient coffer, carved with a very quaint representation of the Royal Oak, and the words C . R . BOSCOBEL . 1651. This coffer is depicted at the end of the present chapter. Upstairs we are shewn the secret closet that opens into the great outside chimney already referred to. Then, clambering to the garret, a trap-door is lifted at the head of the stairs, revealing the dark, narrow hole, into which the unfortunate monarch had to squeeze himself whenever his enemies drew nigh. A short ladder leads down into it; and, when Charles was in hiding here, cheeses were rolled over the spot, so that His Majesty might lurk in security, if not exactly in comfort. Hence a rude stairway, fashioned in the thickness of the wall, communicates with the lower hidie-hole, enabling the refugee to escape outside the house by means of the chimney stair before mentioned. Bidding farewell to Boscobel, we now retrace our steps to the old ruin beside the wood. Here in the depths of Brewood Forest was founded, in Richard Plantagenet's reign, a Cistercian nunnery, which, on account of the white habit of the nuns, was called Whiteladies; in contradistinction to the Black Ladies of the Benedictine monastery, just across the Staffordshire border. The establishment appears to have continued, with more or less prosperity, until the date of the Dissolution of the Monasteries; but then John Leland's note of 'Byrwoode, a Priory of White Nunnes, lately suppressid, in the very Marche of Shropshire into Darbyshire,' tells its own tale of surrender and spoliation. Of the conventual buildings little now remains save the north wall of a chapel of Norman date, with several circular-headed windows, a good Norman doorway with a cusp-like ornamentation around the head, and a large arch opening into a transept, now gone. Such slight fragments of carved work as remain, upon capital or string-course, are refined in character. [Illustration: At Whiteladies.] Dotted about the greensward are seen a number of ancient headstones, only one of which has any interest for us here. Thus runs the faded epitaph: HERE . LIETH . THE . BODIE . OF . A . FRIENDE . THE . KING . DID . CALL . DAME . JOAN : BUT . NOW . SHE . IS . DECEAST . AND . GONE : ANNO . DOM . 1669: This is that worthy Dame Joan Penderel who, with her stalwart sons, rendered such yeoman service to Charles II. in time of need; and whose portrait we have lately seen at Boscobel House. A large, rambling, half-timbered mansion, which originally formed part of the monastic building, has long since disappeared, leaving not one stone upon another. It is illustrated in Blount's 'Boscobel.' With sun and wind in our faces we now set out for Albrighton, a fieldpath helping every now and again to cut off a corner of the road, and lending variety to the route. This summer breeze, sweet from the clover-scented meadows, comes very welcome to way-worn, travel-stained tramps. Nature's green carpet underfoot is damasked with buttercups, great white ox-eye daisies, and many another wildflower; while the hemlock weaves its fairylike fringe along the skirts of the hedgerow. The soaring lark pours down her melody as she climbs the sky, and every copse and spinny resounds with the 'charm' of feathered songsters. But heaven's artillery now mutters in the distance; the birds soon hush their voices in the woods; vast cumulus clouds arise, and blot out the jolly sunshine; the breeze dies quite away, and the sultry air seems big with coming storm. Suddenly down plumps the rain, in splashes first, as large as sixpenny-pieces; but anon with a steady downpour that drives one into waterproof gear. The brunt of the battle, however, is not for us; the cloud-wrack and tempest rolling away over the country in confused, towering masses, like an army in full retreat; while shafts of sunlight skirmish athwart the landscape in pursuit of the flying foe. The rain ceasing as suddenly as it began, we push on along the lonely road; with a little, dry, dusty Sahara under each tree overhanging the pathway, and blue puddles in every wheel-rut, like bits of the sky tumbled out of their places. The woodlands re-echo once more to the pipe of thrush, piefinch and blackbird; and the parched foliage renews its youth in the genial, life-giving moisture. Meanwhile, as the hedgerows, all a-sparkle with raindrops, go twinkling by, we fall to 'blowing the cool tobacco cloud, and watching the white wreaths pass;' and vowing that, let tarry-at-home folk say what they will, there's no such thing as bad weather! So we jog merrily onward; now meeting a waggoner loading timber at a farmyard gate, anon passing the time of day with an old country woman tending her cow by the laneside. Nothing much worthy of note is seen until, drawing nigh our destination, we come to a place called Humphreston, where the lane takes a sudden turn. Here we find a large old timbered farmhouse, with huge oak beams in the ceiling of its roomy kitchen, and carved panelling around some of the better rooms; and doors upstairs that still retain their original wrought iron hinges and wooden thumb-latches. The place must formerly have been surrounded by a moat, for a part of it yet remains, besides a good stone doorway in the adjacent boundary wall--altogether a notable old house, which looks as if it might have had a history. Who knows but what it is named after that Humphrey Penderel, Miller of Whiteladies Mill, whose horse had the honour of carrying, as he declared, 'the price of three kingdoms on his back'? Thence it is but a mile to The Crown at Albrighton, a fine, upstanding old inn, shewing a ruddy, genial-looking gabled front towards the village street, and boasting withal one of the best bowling-greens in the county. So calling in to test the quality of mine host's ale, half-an-hour slips away in no time as we take our ease in the bar parlour, before starting forth to investigate our new neighbourhood. [Illustration: Albrighton.] Guided by the sound of bells, we soon find our way to Albrighton church, which, overlooking a placid mere, rises beside the highway at the farther end of the village. Though considerably restored, the church is not devoid of interest, a good rose window in the gable of the north aisle being a noticeable feature, as also are the curious circular openings on either side the belfry windows. In the chancel, carved in marble, John Talbot of Grafton lies in state beside his lady wife; while Master Leonard Smallpage of Pepperhill has to content himself with a bald stone slab, outside in the chilly churchyard. But he had a goodly dwelling in his time, as we shall presently see. A bowshot away towards the north, beyond the lake-like mere, stands a rival church, St. Cuthbert's, the parish church of Donington. On the way thither we turn aside to take a look at St. Cuthbert's well, a perennial spring of water much resorted to in bygone days as a cure for sore eyes. Donington church, like its neighbour across the water, has been largely renovated in recent times. Its thirteenth-century chancel has some interesting features; a good oak roof, supported upon carved brackets, overarches the nave, and some massive oak pews with enriched panels are to be found in the north aisle. We now retrace our steps as far as The Crown at Albrighton, and, following a by-lane, come presently to Boningale, one of those quiet, out-of-the-way hamlets on the road to nowhere, whither the echoes of this eager nineteenth century seem scarce to penetrate, and where one's footfall in the silent street brings the villagers agape to their open doors. [Illustration: Old Well-Cover at Pepperhill. Albrighton.] A handful of antiquated cottages and small farmhouses, and a little green churchyard with headstones bowered in roses, are soon left behind. Anon, after passing The Horns, a wayside posting house, we strike into a lane leading to the south, and hark away through some broken country to Pepperhill, a curious old dwelling-house standing all by itself, close upon the Staffordshire border. Built upon an outcrop of the sandstone rock, the house occupies a commanding position, having probably superseded a structure of considerably greater antiquity. The present edifice, partly constructed of brick, partly of stone, has a mighty chimney stack projecting from its southern end; and now affords a home for several cottagers. The main building has been tastefully fitted up as a rural residence by Colonel Thorneycroft, of Wolverhampton. A kind of observatory has been formed upon the roof, whence a wide and beautiful prospect is obtained towards the west and south. In the garden hard by rises the curious stone structure shewn in the sketch on p. 169. For want of a better term, it has been called a Fountain, though amongst the country folk it goes by the name of the 'Pepperbox.' It is hexagonal in plan; of Italian, or classic, design; much worn and weathered by time, as well as damaged by careless hands; and appears to be of early seventeenth-century date. Broken, weedgrown and neglected, this old Fountain is so nicely proportioned and finely wrought, that it looks picturesque in its decay. The well to which it originally served as a cover has long since ceased to exist. Pepperhill, we understand, was formerly an appanage of the Earls of Shrewsbury and Talbot; and was afterwards the home of Leonard Smallpage, whose name we have already seen in Albrighton churchyard. Some scanty remains of ecclesiastical buildings are traceable at Lower Pepperhill, but of their history very little is known. [Illustration: The Royal Oak.] [Illustration: Bridgnorth.] ROUND ABOUT BRIDGNORTH. Clinging limpet-like upon the crest and shoulders of a steep, sandstone crag, on the western bank of the Severn, the ancient town of Bridgnorth occupies a situation of more than ordinary picturesqueness. 'Where Severne runneth, Nature hath made a terrible Dike,' wrote John Leland anent Bridgnorth in the days of Henry VIII.; and to this 'terrible Dike' the town owes its unique aspect among all the towns of Shropshire. Confronting the river rise, tier above tier, the little old brown-roofed dwellings; so closely packed that the cottager, as he stands in his rustic porch, can almost peep down his neighbour's chimney and see what is cooking for dinner! Bits of garden ground with their varied greenery lend a pleasant, rural air; while in and between wind steep, narrow, stepped paths; reminding one of Clovelly, and of certain mountain townlets in northern Italy. At the foot of the hill, the Severn is spanned by the old stone Bridge whence the town derives its name. Beyond this bridge lies the riverside suburb of Lower Town, occupying a sort of amphitheatre enclosed by the rocky ridge which flanks the vale upon its eastern side. To see Bridgnorth at its best, let the visitor stand, about sundown of an early autumn day, upon this old bridge; or, better still, take a boat on the river. Then the old town may be trusted to give one a touch of its quality; its brown walls and roofage blending with the ruddy rock into deep, harmonious tints; a ray of light from some cottage pane here and there reflected in the dark, silent water; while the two tall church towers on the crest of the ridge still glow in the last warm rays of the departing day. So much, then, for general effect; let us now get to closer quarters. Turning our backs upon the Bridge, we bear to the right and enter the Cartway, in olden times the one and only route by which vehicles could ascend to the Upper Town. [Illustration: Ancient House, Bridgnorth.] Confronting us as we climb the steep, crooked lane, rises the old half-timbered mansion which figures in the accompanying sketch; one of the few of its kind that have survived the ravages of the Civil Wars. Built in the sixteenth century, its weatherbeaten front shews the delightful irregularity so often seen in structures of that period. The interior, half workshop, half mean tenement, has lost all interest for the antiquary, the only indigenous feature being a ponderous lintel stone carved with the ensuing inscription: EXCEPT . THE . LORD . BVILD . THE . OWSE . THE . LABOVRERS . THERE . OF . EVAIL . NOT . ERECTED . BY . R . FOR* 1580. The latter part of the sentence is a cryptic rendering of the name of Richard Forester, secretary to Bishop Bonner, an ancestor of the family which for generations past has dwelt at Willey Hall. But the name most associated with this ancient residence is that of Dr. Percy, sometime Bishop of Dromore, who was born beneath its roof in 1728. In his day and generation, Bishop Percy was an author and antiquary of no mean calibre; and his 'Reliques of Antient English Poetry' was once widely celebrated. Mounting upwards again, we pass a group of queer cottages and shops, oddly mixed up amidst the native rock with which they are incorporated; and finally we emerge upon an ample greensward, with St. Leonard's church rising in the middle. This church has undergone some remarkable vicissitudes. John Leland, in 1536, found it a 'very fayre one'; but during the Civil Wars it suffered much damage through an encounter which took place, between Royalists and Roundheads, in the churchyard; when Colonel Billingsley, commander of the town regiment, was slain. But of late years St. Leonard's has been admirably restored, and is now worthy of the ancient town it adorns. The original church was mainly of thirteenth-century date; though its noble tower, built of salmon-red sandstone, is of somewhat later style, and rich and handsome to a degree. A fine, open-timbered roof was brought to light during restoration; and the east window has been filled with stained glass in memory of the late Dr. Rowley, who, as Head Master, was for many years the 'bright particular star' of Bridgnorth School. Colonel Billingsley's sword is preserved in the south aisle, where there are also some curious old cast-iron memorial tablets. In one corner of the churchyard stand Palmer's Almshouses, a series of low, timbered structures, grouped around a small courtyard approached through a modernized archway. This charity owes its inception to Francis Palmer, nephew of Colonel Billingsley, by whom it was established in 1687 for the benefit of ten poor widows. Close at hand rise the plain, brown brick gables of the erstwhile Grammar School, established in Henry the Eighth's time; a sedate-looking, antiquated edifice, attractive by its very simplicity. A diminutive black-and-white cottage, whose latticed casements look out demurely upon the churchyard, was once the home of Richard Baxter, the divine, ere his name had become famous in the land. We now pass on into the High Street, a broad, cheerful thoroughfare, over whose uneasy, cobble-stone pavement, we make our penitential progress. Midway adown the street rises the ancient Town Hall, the centre and focus of Bridgnorth, its plain rounded archways bestriding the horse-road, and affording a passage way. Overhead, its half-timbered gable is relieved by oriel windows filled with stained glass; while the steep, tiled roof is surmounted by a slender bell-turret, terminating in a weather vane. This notable old building dates from the year 1652, having been erected by the burgesses to replace an earlier Town Hall, destroyed during the Civil Wars. Here may be seen the Council Chamber, the Court of Justice, etc., where the town magnates sit in conclave to administer the affairs of this historic Borough; and the modern stained glass windows of the various courts, inserted as a memorial of the Queen's Jubilee, afford a study in the corporate life of Bridgnorth. Confronting the Town Hall, across the way, appears the ancient many-windowed façade of the Swan Inn, a rare specimen of a country-town hostelry of the spacious Tudor times; and scarcely less effective, though more modernized, are the chequered gables and quaintly carved brackets of a neighbouring residence. The North Gate, last survivor of Bridgnorth's town gates, spans the end of the street with its three uneven archways. [Illustration: Market Place. Bridgnorth.] Saturday is market-day at Bridgnorth, as it has been from time immemorial. The long ranks of tented booths, with the crowds frequenting them, make an animated scene; for the countryfolk foregather then from long distances around, and hearty Shropshire greetings are heard on every hand. As nightfall wears on the fun waxes faster; and lucky the housewives whose menfolk win their way home at last in no worse plight than 'market-peart,' to use the Shropshire phrase. [Illustration: Market Day at Bridgnorth.] We now push on to Castle Hill, the southern horn of the monticle on which Bridgnorth is located. Before us rises the tall, classic tower of St. Mary Magdalene's church, which, though designed by Telford, the celebrated engineer, already shews signs of instability. Despite its quasi-classic garb, this church is one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations in the town; having been transferred to Bridgnorth, from St. Mary Magdalene's at Quatford, by Earl Robert de Belesme, when he built Bridgnorth Castle. So old, indeed, is this foundation, that, even in Leland's time, the church appears to have been in a state of disrepair; that painstaking chronicler recording, 'there is a college church of St. Mary Magdalene within the Castle; the church itself is now a rude thinge.' In the reign of Edward III., William of Wykeham, the famous Bishop of Winchester, held for a time the Prebend of Alveley in St. Mary's church, which was the head of an ecclesiastical district bearing the imposing title of 'The Royal Peculiar and Exempt Jurisdiction of the Deanery of Bridgnorth.' A stone's-throw farther on we enter the Public Gardens, where, 'all on one side, like Bridgnorth Election,' rises the ancient Leaning Tower, sole remains of Bridgnorth Castle, in its time one of the strongest and most important fortresses in all Shropshire. For some two centuries and a half has this massive, grey, limestone ruin, braved the wear-and-tear of the elements, after Cromwell's men had tried in vain to raze it to the ground. Built by Earl Robert de Belesme, about the year 1100, Bridgnorth Castle has experienced a chequered and eventful career. Scarcely was the fabric completed, when the rebellious Earl was besieged by Henry I., who, having made himself master of the stronghold, converted it into a royal residence. Later on came the Second Henry, with Thomas à Beket in his train, and, while investing the castle, had a narrow escape of losing his life by an arrow shot from the wall. In the fourth year of his reign, Henry II. granted to the town its first Royal charter, which has been renewed and amplified by several subsequent sovereigns. The Castle having been strengthened, and put into a state of defence against 'that great magician, damnable Glendower,' the armies of Henry IV. assembled at Bridgnorth on the eve of the Battle of Shrewsbury, as is recorded in Shakespeare's lines: 'On Thursday we ourselves will march; our meeting Is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you shall march Through Gloucestershire; by which account, Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.' After a period of comparative tranquillity, Bridgnorth and its castle became involved in the great struggle between Royalist and Roundhead; when the old town showed itself trusty to the core, and true to its loyal motto, FIDELITAS . URBIS . SALUS . REGIS. King Charles I. honoured the borough with several visits; and his rival, the 'arch-Rebell,' was within an ace of being picked off by a marksman upon the castle walls, while riding near to view the defences of the town. After a stubborn siege, Bridgnorth finally passed into the hands of the Parliamentarian forces, on March 31, 1646. Taking warning by the tough resistance they had encountered, the Roundheads did their best to render further resistance impossible by dismantling and demolishing the castle; and how effectually they succeeded in doing so is attested by the battered fragment we see before us. Says Leland, chronicling the results of his observations: 'This Castle standeth on the south Part of the Towne, and is fortified by East with the profound Valley, instead of a Ditch. The Walles of it be of a great Height. There were two or three strong Wardes in the castle, that nowe goe totally to ruine. I count the Castle to be more in Compasse than the third part of the Towne. There is one mighty gate by north in it, now stopped up; and a little Posterne made of force thereby through the wall, to enter into the castle. The castle ground, and especially the base-court, hath now many dwellinge Houses of tymbre in it, newly erected.' From the adjacent gardens, we obtain an excellent survey of Bridgnorth and its pleasant environs; a land of smiling meadows, groves and orchards, encompassed by gently undulating hills: 'Such an up-and-down Of verdure, nothing too much up nor down. A ripple of land, such little hills the sky Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheat-fields climb.' Yonder is Pampudding Hill, the site of a castle built by Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred the Great, well-nigh a thousand years ago. Beyond it lies the hamlet of Oldbury, the 'Old-Borough'; a place which, as its name suggests, is older than Bridgnorth itself. Then there is the winding Severn, spanned by its grey stone bridge; and the ancient town clinging to its rocky hold, backed by ruddy heights and feathery foliage where Apley Park closes in the view. So now let us push our explorations farther afield. Proceeding along the terraced Castle Walk, we descend the Stoneway Steps, and, crossing the bridge, pass the site of the defunct Hospital of St. John, founded in the reign of Richard I. A little farther on we come to an old gabled house standing in an elbow of the road, and known as Cann Hall. In former times, Cann Hall was the town residence of the Apley family, and upon one occasion Prince Rupert found here a hiding-place from his enemies. Beyond Cann Hall we follow the Wolverhampton road, which, ascending between high, rocky banks, brings us in a short half-mile to a point where the low, red sandstone cliff has been fashioned into a number of irregular chambers, known from time immemorial as The Hermitage. 'In Morfe Forrest,' writes John Leland, 'King Athelston's Brother lead, in a Rocke, for a tyme an Heremite's life.' Prince Ethelwald, who is here referred to, was the first recorded tenant of this Hermitage, about the middle of the tenth century. In 1335, Edmund de la Mare was presented to the Hermitage of 'Athelardeston '; and, eleven years later, Roger Burghton was 'presented to the Hermitage above the High Road near Bridgenorth.' Time and neglect have played sad havoc with these singular grottoes, but their main features are still in a measure discernible. The 'Chapel,' an oblong chamber hewn in the living rock, is now partially open to the sky, though the 'chancel,' with its rudimentary rounded arch, remains intact; and there is a shallow, round-topped recess in the eastern wall, where the reredos usually stands. Alongside the chapel we find the Hermitage proper, a low, dark cell, communicating with it by a small aperture, now blocked by the large, ungainly brick oven, which defaces the interior of the chapel. There is an apocryphal tale that a passage formerly existed, connecting this Hermitage with Bridgnorth Castle; and that chests full of priceless treasure lay hidden away somewhere amidst the recesses of the rocks; but, needless to say, no treasure-trove has ever been brought to light. [Illustration: Cottage in the Rock, Bridgnorth.] A few paces distant stands a lowly cottage dwelling, which, excavated like its neighbours from the solid rock, was until recently tenanted by a family of modern troglodytes, and is still used in the daytime by the good woman who has charge of the Hermitage. So let us glance within as we pass. Upon entering we find ourselves in the living room, whose roof, walls and floor, consist of the native sandstone; a warm, weatherproof covering, though blotched and variegated with many a mottled stain. A short step-ladder gives access to a small upper chamber, with seats roughly cut in its rocky walls, and a window pierced through the outer one. A few hundred paces beyond the cottage there is a large projecting rock, which, for some reason unknown, goes by the name of the Queen's Parlour. Upon taking to the road once more we soon quit the highway, and, following an unfrequented sandy lane, drop to a secluded nook where the river Worf meanders past a small, ivy-clad water-wheel house, with the green glades about Davenport House feathering the hill slope before us. Through the park we stroll onwards, amidst dappled sunshine and shadow; the rabbits dashing to right and left as we crush through the wholesome-scented bracken, and a nuthatch plying his sturdy beak (like the lusty woodman he is) on the branch of a neighbouring elm. A glimpse of Davenport House, a substantial eighteenth-century brick mansion, and anon we descend the hill past an old circular dovecot, and enter Worfield village. [Illustration: Worfield.] A pretty perspective of rustic dwellings, each with its narrow strip of garden aglow with oldfashioned flowers, flanks the quiet thoroughfare along which we take our way. This brings us to St. Peter's church, a beautiful edifice whose tall, slender spire is seen soaring far aloft above the cottage roofs as we draw near. Anent this church there is a legend which runs as follows. The old monks, it seems, intended to erect their church on the top of the neighbouring hill, so that its lofty steeple might be seen from afar, pointing the way to heaven. But they had reckoned without their host, for, built they never so fast each day, the old Enemy set to work at night and removed every stone to the bottom of the hill, where the church stands to this day. Be that as it may, we will now take a closer look at Worfield church. To the right upon entering the churchyard appears an ancient, many-gabled old manor-house, with timber-and-plaster walls, and chimney stacks planted askew upon its stone-tiled roofs. Of its earlier history we can say nothing, but in recent times the old place has been put into a state of much needed repair, and converted to the uses of a parsonage house. Passing a great yew tree, shaped like an extinguisher, we have the church full in view before us; a large fabric of warm red sandstone, whose diverse styles of architecture lend variety to its appearance. At the west end rises a fine tower of three stages, surmounted by the lofty spire, which, some 200 feet in height, has scarce a rival in Shropshire. Several good geometrical windows embellish the aisles, and a porch of similar character projects upon the south. By this porch we now enter the church; not failing to notice the exhortation, BEE . SURE . AS . YOU . REMEMBER . THE . POOR : 1683, inscribed upon the wooden alms-box near at hand. Curiously enough, the floor of the nave has a downward slope towards the chancel, thus reversing the usual order of things. A tall, richly carved and traceried roodscreen, divides nave from chancel, which has a plain sedilia and piscina. In the north aisle we notice two admirable, canopied marble monuments, to the Bromleys, and a fine old muniment chest covered with scrolly ironwork. In the thirteenth century, a certain Henry de Wengham, besides being Rector of Worfield, Alveley, Kirkham and Preston, was Bishop of London, Dean of St. Martin's, and ditto of Tettenhall; a notable instance of pluralism. Two miles due north of Worfield lies the village of Badger, best known for its celebrated Dingle, a deep, rocky, richly wooded ravine, down which a small tributary makes its way to the Worf. In Badger church are to be seen some well executed monuments to the Cheneys and the Brownes, by Flaxman, Chantrey and others. Isaac Hawkins Browne was a poetaster of some little celebrity in the last century. Beckbury, with its fine parish church, dedicated to St. Milburga, lies away up the vale of Worf. From Badger we make our way to Chesterton, where are the remains of a prehistoric encampment, half surrounded by the Stretford brook. From these names, and other local circumstances, it appears probable the Romans had a station hereabouts. There are traces, in some neighbouring cottages, of what looks like a desecrated fifteenth-century chapel. [Illustration: Ludstone. Shropshire.] Proceeding on our travels, we traverse Rudge Heath; and presently after come to Ludstone, a stately old moated manor-house, built by one of the Whitmores about the year 1607, probably on the site of an earlier house. It is a charming abode, well preserved, yet not over-restored; its Jacobean gables and balconies wreathed in ivy and Virginian creeper; and its antique, pleasantly formal gardens encircled by the moat, where amidst the water-lilies we get an inverted replica of the old mansion. Passing near Danford, or Daneford,--a suggestive name--we descend a lane hewn deep in the sandstone rock, cross a bridge over a stream, and so win on to Claverley, 'quite a place,' as our American cousins say, and the largest village in this part of the county. [Illustration: Claverley.] Midway along the street we come to the parish church, a spacious sandstone structure of various periods, crowned by a tall embattled tower. Unlike its neighbour at Worfield, Claverley church remains entirely innocent of restoration, and, from the antiquarian point of view, contrasts favourably with that somewhat spick-and-span edifice. Overlooking the churchyard, where the gravestones crowd 'thick as Autumnal leaves in Vallombrosa,' rises the remarkably fine old half-timbered house seen in profile in our sketch. This is doubtless the subject of an ancient deed whereby, in 1659, one Richard Dovey bequeathed certain tenements, 'over and adjoining to the churchyard Gates,' on condition that a poor man be paid 'for waking sleepers in church, and driving out Doggs during divine serviss.' The office has lapsed; but whether on account of the rousing character of the sermons in these latter days, history recordeth not. Close beside the churchyard path, we notice the broken fragments of an ancient stone cross. This cross formerly stood in the centre of the village, and probably dates from about the time of Edward III. It is supposed to have been put up to commemorate the plague, called the Black Death, in the fourteenth century. What with its lofty, whitewashed walls, its plastered ceilings and high-backed box-pews, the interior of Claverley church recalls the Groote-kerk of some Dutch provincial town; the resemblance being heightened by the peculiar arrangement of the pews, which, turning their backs upon the east-end, face towards the pulpit in the nave. This pulpit is, perhaps, the most striking object in the church. It is a large structure of the 'three-decker' type, overhung by a great sounding-board terminating in elaborate pinnacles. High overhead stretches a fine oak-panelled roof, partially disguised beneath the ubiquitous whitewash, and adorned with the royal arms. There are some quaint carvings upon the capitals of the pillars; the Norman front is enriched with arcading and sculpture; and the curious tracery of the chancel windows should by no means be overlooked. The south, or Gatacre, chapel, contains a lordly alabaster tomb, with effigies of Sir Robert Broke and his two wives. A native of Claverley, Sir Robert was Speaker of the Commons, and Lord Chief Justice of Common Pleas under Queen Mary; departing this life in the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign. Upon the adjacent wall there are two large marble slabs, with quaint figures in 'graffito,' and inscriptions to the Gatacres bearing dates in the sixteenth century. But the waning daylight warns us to depart. So, setting our faces westwards, we bowl along between the dusky hedgerows, until we strike the main road near a place called the 'Wheel of Worvell.' Here we linger awhile at the open door of the smithy, whose ruddy gleam of firelight, dancing sparks, and cheerful noise of hammering, attract one irresistibly, awakening some slumbering instinct of the primæval man. Then putting on the best pace, we spin away along an up-and-down, switchback sort of road, re-cross the bridge over the Severn, and, availing ourselves of the 'Lilt,' or Castle Hill Railway, we ascend swiftly and smoothly to our night's quarters in the 'Faithful' town. This time-honoured Borough of Bridgnorth boasts a number of ancient charters, the earliest of which is the charter of incorporation granted by King Henry II. in 1157. The handsome regalia comprises a pair of silver-gilt maces, a marshall's staff, and a corporate seal; and, last but not least, a modern Mayoral chain bearing the names of the Mayors, the Borough Arms, and the Town motto, FIDELITAS . URBIS . SALUS . REGIS. * * * * * A row up the Severn to Apley Park, one of the pleasantest excursions in this locality, introduces the visitor in a leisurely fashion to the green, placid landscapes, characteristic of 'gentle Severn's sedgy banks.' Drawing clear of the town, we get a good rearward view of Bridgnorth, perched on its rocky eyrie; and then we pass beneath Pendlestone Rock, whose towering crags are draped in luxuriant foliage down to the water's edge. Hoard's Park and Severn Hall, two ancient timbered houses, are presently left behind, though not in sight from the river; and then, skirting the demesne of Stanley, we come by-and-by to a landing-place at a cool, shady nook, on the eastern bank of the Severn. Winding upwards through the woods, the steep path lands the wayfarer at a spot where a queer little cottage, excavated in the rock, gives upon a kind of platform, whence one may enjoy a widespreading view over hill and dale and winding river. Another short climb brings us to Apley Terrace, a charming sylvan drive, which, traversing the crest of a richly timbered upland, introduces one to a changing panorama of almost unrivalled loveliness. If 'to see is to possess,' as Beranger affirms, we have here indeed acquired a goodly heritage. Far beneath our feet, the Severn winds through the vale in a long, silvery reach, embracing the rich rolling woodlands and smooth, green, grassy glades of Apley Park; a worthy setting to the old grey mansion, seated so serenely in its midst. Away and beyond spreads a mazy landscape, chequered with cornfields and woodlands, all mellowed by the touch of Autumn; while our old friends, the Wrekin and the twin-crested Clees, look over the shoulders of their lowlier brethren. Nor is this all, for, by turning across the drive, we get a peep at the Malvern Hills; and Clent and Lickey are seen, rising clear and distinct against the mirky haze that overhangs the Black Country. In Henry the Third's time, the Manor of Apley was held by a family owning the euphonious name of Huggeford; passing subsequently by marriage to Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, in Warwickshire. By him the estate was sold, in 1551, to one of the Whitmores of Aston, Claverley, an influential family, who remained masters of Apley during some three centuries or more. For 238 years, it is said, the Whitmores represented the Borough of Bridgnorth in Parliament; a circumstance which gave rise to the well-known local adage, 'like Bridgnorth election, all on one side.' From the Terrace, here, as we look towards the east, a large farmhouse is seen, standing by itself amidst a grove of trees. This is Ewdness, a fine old brick-and-stone, oak panelled residence of the Tudor period, deriving its name from the ancient family of d'Eudinas, mentioned in Domesday Chronicle. Walter d'Eudinas, in 1221, held the estate direct from the King. Long afterwards it passed into the hands of a Mr. Fletcher, by whom the existing mansion was erected. Fletcher's daughter espoused Colonel Berkeley, sometime M.P. for Shrewsbury, who commanded a troop of horse in the Parliamentary wars. Ewdness now forms part of the Apley estate. Near Ewdness lived, once upon a time, a damsel named Sally Hoggins, daughter of a local market-gardener. Growing aweary of her patronymic, Miss Hoggins played her matrimonial cards to such purpose, that she lived to style herself Sarah, Marchioness of Exeter. Beyond Ewdness lies Stockton village, with its interesting Norman church, dedicated to St. Chad. Half-a-mile farther on, on the Shiffnal road, is the hamlet of Norton, where, opposite the Hundred House Inn, beneath a big elm tree, stand the ancient stocks and whipping-post, which our artist has drawn for us at the end of the present chapter. In Edward the Third's reign, it will be remembered, the Commons petitioned the King to establish stocks in every village in the realm. Taking a giant's-stride across the Severn, we come to Astley Abbots, a secluded village composed of about half a score cottages, and pleasant, rural residences of the gentry-folk. St. Calixtus's church, rising a short distance west of the village, is our next objective; an unobtrusive edifice, topped by a small wooden steeple above its western gable. Founded in 1138, it is of the Norman and Decorated styles, and has been reasonably renovated in modern times. The chancel, rebuilt in 1633, has a little painted glass in its eastern window; and the Norman font and richly carved Jacobean pulpit are worth a passing glance. Suspended in a corner of the north aisle we notice a 'Lover's Garland,' a memorial to Hanna Phillips, of this parish, who died on the eve of wedlock in 1707. [Illustration: Dunvall.] Upon leaving the church, a meadow path soon brings us to Dunvall, a remarkable old timbered mansion of the Elizabethan era. Its massive oak beams display great variety of treatment, and are entirely guiltless of ironwork, being joined together by long wooden pegs; while many of them are scored on the surface with curious lines and hatchings, private marks of the craftsmen who fashioned them, perhaps. The hall with its open staircase, oak panelling and wide, lattice-paned windows, has a delightfully old-world appearance, and probably remains much as originally built. Dunvall formerly belonged to a branch of the Acton family, in whose days the old house boasted a library of rare and curious volumes, including a 'Breeches' Bible, dated 1582. But the Actons have long since departed, their relics and curios have been dispersed, and the place thereof knoweth them no more. So now, having done with Dunvall, we take our departure in a south-westerly direction; faring along, up-hill and down-dale, amidst green meadows and golden wheat-fields, where the labourers are plying their peaceful, rural toil; while the clack! clack! of the 'reaper-and-binder' sounds merrily through the still air. Emerging from labyrinthine lanes, we strike the Wenlock road three miles from Bridgnorth, and march on thence into the village of Morville. Calling in at the clerk's cottage for the key of the church--a key of Brobdingnagian size--we push on past the pretty, rustic post-office, and the village smithy; and then, espying the old grey church and Hall away in the vale to our left, we climb over a stile, and make our way thitherwards. St. Gregory's church at Morville is an interesting edifice of great antiquity, though no part of the earlier structure, which stood here in Edward the Confessor's days, is now in existence. Dating from the early years of the twelfth century, the present church constituted a cell subject to Shrewsbury Abbey; and our cherished and most respectable Leland did not fail to take note of the place, as he journeyed by from Wenlock to Bridgnorth, describing it as 'a little priory, or cell, at Morfeilde, on the right hand as I entered the village.' Morville church has the long chancel usually seen in collegiate foundations, the semi-headed chancel arch being curiously depressed, and having rudely sculptured capitals, and billet mouldings. Large, very quaintly carved wooden effigies of the four Evangelists, are fixed against the wall just below the corbels of the nave roof; but they are probably not now in their original positions. The large, cylindrical font is enriched with primitive, arcaded ornamentation; and two very ancient oak muniment chests stand in the adjacent aisle. In the course of repairs, some years ago, traces of colour-decoration, or fresco, were detected under the whitewash on the south wall. Upon regaining the highroad we pass the Acton Arms, a well-to-do-looking wayside hostelry. Then Morville Hall comes in sight, a grey stone mansion with projecting wings, occupying the site of the ancient priory, whose last Prior, Richard Marshall, died in 1558. [Illustration: Tympanum at Aston Eyres.] En route to Aston Eyres, the tall trees of Aldenham avenue greet the eye pleasantly, though the Hall itself is hidden. At this diminutive village of Aston we find a church of proportionate scale, the only feature whereof that need detain us being the remarkable sculptured panel shewn in our sketch. It stands above the south door, and, protected by the projecting porch, is still in an excellent state of preservation, though evidently of very great antiquity. As may be seen, there is much quaint character about the several figures, which are carved in high relief. In the centre we see the Saviour, palm-branch in hand, riding into Jerusalem upon an ass, which is followed by its colt; to the right a seated figure strews branches in the way, while another man is in the act of casting his cloak upon the ground. It is recorded that Robert Fitz Aer caused this church to be built, between the years 1132 and 1148; and to his piety we are doubtless indebted for this interesting piece of sculpture. Incorporated with some large farm buildings, on the north side of the churchyard, we find considerable remains of the thirteenth-century manor-house of the Fitz Aers; part of the great hall and the two-storied domestic buildings, with a circular newel stairway, being traceable in the fabric of a big stone barn. In the quiet country towards Wonlock, on the foothills of the Clees, lie the sleepy hamlets of Monk Hopton and Acton Round; the latter boasting a restored church, with tombs of the Acton family, and some remains of a hall of Queen Anne's time, now turned into a farmhouse. Retracing our steps to Morville, we plunge into a hollow, sequestered lane, and, after passing a rustic mill, and negotiating one or two rather breakneck 'pitches,' we win onwards past Meadowley cover to the brow of a steep, wooded ridge, whose base is washed by the Mor brook. Presently a little grey church and an old ruddy manor-house are seen, keeping company among the trees that top the hill beyond the narrow vale at our feet; and that is Upton Cressett. [Illustration: Upton Cressett.] We now bend our steps towards the church, which, rising amidst the fields, a stone's-throw aside from the lane, seems part and parcel of the tranquil landscape. Standing thus alone, enshrouded by trees, under the lee of the sheltering hill, there is something pensive in the attitude of this ancient house of prayer; as though the place were lost in dreams of 'the days that are no more.' The westering sun, glinting through the trees, spreads the shadows broad athwart the quiet green graveyard. The drowsy hum of insects pervades the autumnal air, the homing rooks make a pleasant sound in the tall elms beside the Hall, and the distant lowing of cattle comes faintly to our ears. Upton Cressett church is an ancient, stone-built structure, surmounted at its western end by a low, twelfth-century broach spire, a very good and early example of that kind of steeple. The wide timbered porch, seen in our sketch, encloses a fine Norman doorway of three orders, having carved capitals and a semicircular arch ornamented with chevron mouldings. Of similar but even richer character is the chancel arch, which consists of four distinct orders, with traces of a fifth; a most unusual elaboration for a remote village church such as this. The thick stone walls are pierced by small Norman and later windows, the east window itself being curiously narrow, a mere lancet light. There was evidently a north aisle at one time, its blocked arches being visible outside the church. The font is of a peculiar shape, like an urn, with slender, rounded arches incised upon it, and rude cable mouldings. A door in the south wall of the chancel gives access to the Cressett chapel, which has a high-pitched, open-timbered roof, and contains a seventeenth-century oak communion table. Traces of faded frescoes are visible upon the wall; into which is let a small brass, dated 1640, in memory of Richard Cressett, a member of the distinguished family which in bygone times lived in the adjacent Hall. As 'Ultone,' Upton Cressett figures in Domesday Survey. In 1165, Upton formed part of the Barony of Fitz Alan, being held for some generations by the descendants of Alan de Upton. The Cressetts first appear as Lords of Upton towards the close of the fourteenth century, when, the male line of the Uptons becoming extinct, Thomas Cressett succeeded to Upton, and gave his name to the place. Richard Cressett, builder of the existing house, held the honourable office of Sheriff of Shropshire, as did many of his descendants in after years. [Illustration: Upton Cressett Hall.] Let us now stroll across to the Hall. As indicated upon a panel let into the wall, the house was erected in the year 1580, and the fine chimney stacks and diapered gables which figure in our sketch date from about that period. Viewed from the north-east, its chequered gables, bronzed, lichen-clad roofs, and wrinkled chimneys, rise with charming effect against the dappled blue of the sky. Internally the house has been much modernized, but some of the older chambers are nicely wainscoted; and the 'chapel room' upstairs is divided by the great beams of the roof into bays, with arched braces and a sort of embattled cornice, all as massive and simple as possible. Beyond a green courtyard rises the Gatehouse, a curious little building with ivied gables and quaint angle turrets, apparently coeval with the mansion, and, like it, constructed of fine, timeworn brickwork, of a pleasant mellow hue. The gateway passage shews remnants of antique gothic lettering, now illegible from decay. A stairway in one of the turrets leads to several small chambers, in one of which Prince Rupert is said to have slept. Some fine though damaged plasterwork in this room displays the usual Tudor emblems, and the word . IESV . upon a heart, all delicately executed. The course of the moat, the ancient well, and the site of the drawbridge can still be identified, a gigantic oak tree marking the outlet of the former. There is said to have been, in the olden times, a subterranean passage running from here to Holgate Castle, in Corve Dale; but, as that is six miles distant as the crow flies, the tradition must be accepted cum grano salis. Bidding farewell to Upton Cressett, we work a course back to Bridgnorth by a different route. This leads us near to The Hay, a place where, long, long ago, the Lady Juliana de Kenley owned certain lands, which, as is recorded, she disposed of for the moderate rental of one pair of white gloves, value one halfpenny, 'in lieu of all suit of Court and Halimot.' Once more we pace the now familiar 'petrified kidneys' of the old Severn-side town, and so come at last to our nocturnal lodging place. Turning in for the night, we quickly lose ourselves in the arms of Morpheus, our day's adventures are finally 'rounded with a sleep'--and the rest is silence. [Illustration: Stocks & Whipping Post at Stockton.] BETWEEN SEVERN AND CLEE. The morning mists hang white and chill about the ghostly landscape, like a world rolled up in cotton wool, as, turning our backs upon Bridgnorth, we hie away southwards adown the vale of Severn. The sun, robbed of his rays, and wan as the moon herself, looks over the low hills of the Staffordshire border; and a fleecy, mackerel sky, gives promise of a likely day in store for folk who fare abroad. Descending the hill and crossing Severn bridge, we push onward at a good round pace along Hospital Street, so named from the Leper House, or Hospital, which in mediæval days occupied the site of yonder old brick mansion, called St. James's, which now comes in sight among the trees upon our left. A mile farther on, where the road bifurcates, we are within a measurable distance of the Gallows Leasow, the site of another grim relic of feudal times. Here, too, is Danesford; a name that carries us still farther back into the past. Towards the close of the ninth century, the Danes, driven out of Essex by King Alfred, sought refuge in this locality, and entrenched themselves in the great Forest of Morf, which in those days covered all this countryside. Presently as we travel along, Quatford church-tower is seen overlooking a bend of the river. Quatford, the Cwth-Briege of the Saxon Chronicle, is a very ancient place, the earliest records of which take us back to King Alfred's days. In the year 896 the Danes, to quote an old chronicler, 'toke their way towards Wales, and came to Quadruge, nere to the River of Severne, where, upon the borders thereof, they buildid them a Castle.' Here, on the spot overlooking the Severn still called the Danish Camp, they spent the winter, 'not without dislike of their lodging, and cold entertainment'; withdrawing eventually into East Anglia again. Towards the close of the eleventh century, Roger de Belesme began the building of his 'New House and Borough,' mentioned in Domesday, which probably occupied the site of the earlier Danish encampment. After the death of Earl Roger, his son, Robert de Belesme, removed both castle and Burgh to the spot where Bridgnorth now stands. 'At Quatford,' says John Leland, 'yett appeare great Tokens of a Pyle, or Mannour Place, longing that tyme to Robert de Belesme.' Occupying the summit of a rocky standstone knoll, Quatford church is approached by a long flight of steps, leading up to the south porch. In accordance with a romantic vow, the church was dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, as a memorial of and thank-offering for escape from shipwreck, by Adeliza, wife of Earl Roger the Norman; and was consecrated in the year 1086. The chancel arch and adjacent walls, built of a peculiar porous stone called tufa, or travertin, quite different from the rest of the structure, may possibly have formed part of that ancient edifice. In a meadow near Hillhouse Farm, a quarter of a mile north-east of Quatford church, we come to the 'Forest Oak,' a queer old stunted tree which might be of almost any age, with its two short, gnarled stems, supporting a head of wrinkled foliage. So let us give this venerable weed the benefit of the doubt, by accepting the local tradition that here, beneath its shade, the Countess Adeliza met Earl Roger her husband after her perilous voyage, and prevailed upon him to erect the votive church to St. Mary Magdalene, at Quatford. Away across the Severn, at Eardington, is (or was) a small farm called The Moors; a place that gives rise to a quaint ceremony, performed every year in London. On October 22, a proclamation is made in the Exchequer as follows: 'Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Tenants and occupiers of a piece of waste ground called "The Moors," in the County of Salop, come forth and do your service!' The tenants in question then proceed to do sergeantry by cutting two faggots of wood, one with a hatchet, the other with a bill-hook. The fons et origo of this curious feudal custom has long since been lost in the mists of antiquity; but the earliest recorded instance of the service was in the reign of King John, 1210. Bidding adieu to Quatford, we descend the hill, pass the 'Danery,' or Deanery, Inn, and the site of Quatford bridge, and plod on between hedgerows bejewelled with glistening dewdrops. The 'charm' of the birds, to use the Shropshire phrase, no longer enlivens the byway; but a solitary songster every now and again wakes the echoes of woodland or coppice. Atalanta, yonder, taking heart of grace, suns her glossy wings on a spray of the 'swete bramble floure'; while the rabbits, startled at our approach, bob off to their burrows in the sandy bank. Dudmaston Hall is left away to our right, and anon we come to Quat, a mite of a place whose name, derived from Coed, a wood, shews it once stood within the bounds of Morf Forest. Some three miles to the eastward, close to the Staffordshire border, stands Gatacre Hall, the ancestral home of the family of that ilk, which has been settled here, it is said, ever since the reign of Edward the Confessor. Major-General Sir W. Gatacre, one of the victors of Omdurman, is a distinguished scion of this good old stock, having first seen the light, if we are rightly informed, at Gatacre Hall. The existing mansion, a modern, red-brick edifice, seated in a beautiful locality, has usurped the place of the original house, which must have been unique of its kind, to judge from the following description. 'It was built,' writes Camden, 'of a dark grey free stone, coated with a thin greenish vitrified substance, about the thickness of a crown piece. The hall was nearly an exact square, and most remarkably constructed. At each corner, in the middle of each side, and in the centre, was an immense oak tree, hewed nearly square, and without branches; set with their heads on large stones laid about a foot deep in the ground, and with their roots uppermost, which roots, with a few rafters, formed a compleat arched roof. The floor was of oak boards three inches thick, not sawed, but plainly chipped.' [Illustration: The Butter Cross. Alveley.] Beyond Hampton Load ferry we ascend a lane shewing evidences of having been paved. Coming to a corner where four ways meet, we see, by the laneside, the old stone Cross illustrated here; a monolith about 5 feet in height, upon a circular stone base. On each side of the rounded head a cross is faintly distinguishable; but, as a passer-by truly remarks, 'They've yacked un and yowed un, so as you canna very well make out what it be all about.' When and why the cross was erected there is no record to shew, but it is evidently of great antiquity, and probably was used as a meeting place for holding a sort of open-air market. It is sometimes called the Butter Cross, the lower stone being supposed to represent a cheese, and the round head a pat of butter! A quarter of an hour's walk brings us to Alveley, a rather untidy village, scattered higgledy-piggledy along a crooked roadway. St. Mary's church, however, proves interesting enough to make amends for other shortcomings. Many styles of architecture, from Norman to late Decorated, are represented here. The Norman nave has clerestory windows, in one of which we espy some good pre-Reformation glass; and a flattish oak roof spans the whole. [Illustration: Alveley Church.] At the east end of the south aisle rises a beautiful fifteenth-century chantry chapel, dedicated to St. Mary, upon the walls whereof considerable remains of ancient frescoes are still discernible. They appear to represent, the Fall: the Redemption of Man: the Annunciation: and the Salutation; but, as they are all much worn and faded, this is somewhat conjectural. Upon the wall of the adjacent aisle is a curious old altar-frontal, which formerly belonged to St. Mary's chantry. It dates from about 1470, and is wrought upon coloured silk, depicting the Church at rest in Abraham's bosom. The figure of Abraham is admirably portrayed, his countenance being of a decidedly Jewish cast; while the Church, in the form of a group of diminutive figures, is seen snugly ensconced in a sort of napkin, held between Abraham's outstretched hands. The west tower is early Norman, and in spite of late excrescences, is probably the oldest part of the church. Nor must we omit to mention the very ancient 'excommunication' door, now blocked, near the west end of the north aisle. An inscription of some interest to the Freemason fraternity appears upon the outer lintel of this doorway; to wit: ano . domini . 1585 : IHON . DAAIS . FREEMASON : This fine church was well restored by Blomfield, in 1878. From Alveley we make a detour to visit Pool Hall, which is interesting mainly from its past associations, the present house being a somewhat shabby, neglected-looking building of no great antiquity. 'Polehous' first figures in history about the middle of the fourteenth century, when we find it in the possession of Henry de la Pole. The Manor of Alveley, in which Pool Hall is situated, formed one of the four manors held by Algar, Earl of Mercia, before the Normans had penetrated into this part of England. Retracing our steps to Alveley, we drop down to the ferry at Potter's Load, a pleasant, sequestered spot, where the ferryman's picturesque cottage is the only habitation in sight. A shady path, climbing steeply up through the woods, soon brings us to Highley village. The place, as its name suggests, stands at a considerable elevation, affording frequent glimpses of the surrounding country, a hilly-and-daley region. Conspicuous at the top of the village rises its parish church, on the south side whereof we find the interesting fragment of a Calvary cross depicted in the sketch on p. 213. The broken shaft, which has angle chamfers terminating in small heads, stands upon a massive base edged with bold cable mouldings, and ornamented with sphinx-like faces at the corners. On the west side of the base is the curious crocketed niche seen in the cut; it may conjecturally have been used to display the Paschal light at Easter-tide. The southern side has a hand and the letters I . H . C cut upon it. The adjacent church, though ancient, is somewhat featureless; and the Church-house, an antiquated structure of timber and plaster overlooking the graveyard, seems quite the oldest residence in the village. Southward from Highley, the Severn itself forms for several miles the Shropshire boundary, an outlying elbow of Staffordshire coming in upon the east, and giving a curious local twist to the frontier hereabouts. Until comparatively recent times, there was an isolated cantle of Shropshire lying derelict, so to speak, far away towards the east, upon the confines of Worcester and Stafford. The quiet old townlet of Halesowen, with its ruined Premonstratensian Abbey founded by King John, was formerly included in Shropshire; as was also the curious little chapel of St. Kenelm, on the slopes of the Clent Hills, and the pleasant estate of the Leasowes, with its groves and pseudo-classic ruined temples, in the taste of the last century, and its memories of Shenstone the poet. But we digress, so now, revenons à nos moutons. Laying a south-westerly course from Highley, we set out anon for Kinlet Hall, a place seated in a wild, secluded locality, on the borders of Wyre Forest. Our way lies in the main through a country of low, tumbled hills, thatched with woodland; one or two colliery chimneys, emitting grimy smoke, seeming out of place amid these green, pastoral landscapes. After passing the vicarage we enter Kinlet Park, a tract of undulating country about 500 acres in area, containing bosky dells and sylvan glades, where flourish some of the finest oaks and beeches in the county. [Illustration: Kinlet Hall.] The Hall and church soon come in sight, the former a fine, spacious structure of brick, with stone quoins, built in the year 1729 by an ancestor of the present proprietor; the original half-timbered mansion, which stood nearer the church, having been pulled down at that time. Though lacking the picturesque variety of an earlier style, Kinlet Hall impresses one by a certain serene dignity as it rises, four-square and ruddy, and flanked by large arched gateways, from the smooth, close-cropped greensward of the home-park; a worthy example of an English country residence of the early Georgian period. Some good ancestral portraits lend interest to the interior, including likenesses of the builder of the existing mansion, and his lady. [Illustration: Kinlet.] At the time of the Norman Conquest, the estate of Kinlet appertained to Editha, Edward the Confessor's widow, and in after years passed successively to the houses of Cornewall and of Blount. The Blounts, as Camden tells us, were 'an antient, illustrious, and numerous family in these parts, who have extended their branches a great way, and who certainly have their name from their yellow hair.' Kinlet eventually came into the possession of the Baldwyns, a widely connected Shropshire family, and is now the residence of Captain C. Baldwyn-Childe. Kinlet church, nestling in a grove of trees almost under the shadow of the Hall, is a small but interesting cruciform structure. In the Blount chapel we find monuments to various members of that family, as well as to the Childes. The finest of these is a richly canopied table-tomb, with the figures of Sir George Blount and his wife kneeling beneath niches, a recumbent effigy in the arched vault below, and a quaint Latin epitaph alongside. This knight was a distinguished soldier, and sometime High Sheriff of Salop; he died in the year 1581. Against the adjacent wall there is a curious representation of the Crucifixion, in stone, and there are one or two sixteenth-century marble monuments in the chancel. Some idea of the exterior of Kinlet church may be gathered from the little sketch on the previous page, which shews the half-timbered clerestory, the pretty gable-end of the Blount chapel, and a certain small stone structure which rises in the churchyard. It is square on plan, with an arched recess on each side, the one towards the west having a shallow niche on the inner face. It appears to have been surmounted by a cross, of which the base-stone may be seen upon the apex of the roof. Dotted here and there about the valley of the Rea, as it comes down from Brown Clee Hill, are a number of obscure villages and isolated hamlets, which have remained as primitive, probably, as any in all broad Shropshire. It is the country, par excellence, of stiff red clay, as the oft-repeated name of 'Clee' plainly indicates; and its sunny barley fields, its orchards and bosky woodlands, have given rise to the local adage: 'Blest is the eye 'twixt Severn and Wye, But thrice blessed he 'twixt Severn and Clee!' Ditton Priors, with its interesting old church, carved oak roodscreen, stalls and lectern, lies under the shadow of Brown Clee, near the head-waters of the Rea. Cleobury North, on the Ludlow road, had a church subject to Brecon Priory as long ago as Henry the First's time. One or two epitaphs in the graveyard here are worth a passing notice. Then we come to Burwarton, whose inn, the Boyne Arms, offers bed and board for the wayfarer in a better style than one is wont to find in this remote locality, where as a rule the traveller is fortunate who, like the proverbial Scotsman, is 'contented wi' little, an' cantie wi' mair.' Burwarton church is mainly of Norman date, having a plain, semi-headed chancel arch of that period, and a little carved woodwork. Brown Clee Hill, lying due west, may be easily climbed from here; and the view from the top, described on a previous page, will well repay the scramble. A mile south-east is Aston Botterel, where, in the south aisle of the church, may be seen an altar-tomb with pillared canopy to one of the Botterels, who held the Manor of Aston of the Earls of Arundel. At the Bold, hard by, are some slight remains of an ancient building, probably a chapel. Proceeding on our way adown the vale, we come presently to Wheathill, a place that in the Conqueror's time formed a portion of the vast estates of Earl Roger de Montgomery. Wheathill church is of Norman origin, having a fine south doorway with cable moulding, and tympanum with axe-hewn ornamentation. The Hakets were the great folks here in olden times, John Haket, Rector of 'Wheathull,' being mysteriously drowned in the Teme, near Ludlow, in 1342. Some forty minutes later we find ourselves at Stottesdon; our way thither leading by unfrequented lanes across the Rea brook. Here we happen upon a church which, though restored about thirty years ago, retains many points of interest to the antiquary. Stottesdon church has one of the finest Norman fonts in the county. It is ornamented with an interlaced border, and other enrichments; and the carvings of the west doorway are so rude and primitive, they might have formed part of the earlier church known to have existed here in Saxon times. The base of the tower is also possibly pre-Norman, while the Wrickton chantry dates from the fourteenth century. In 1085, Roger de Montgomery gave Stottesdon church, with all its rich endowments, to his great Abbey at Shrewsbury. When visiting Stottesdon in the year 1290, so poor was this neighbourhood, that Bishop Swinfield had to send all the way to Kidderminster market for provender, and for shoes for his coach horses. Bestowed by the Conqueror upon Roger de Montgomery, the 'Marquis de Carabas' of the Welsh border, Stottesdon manor became the caput, or chief place, of one of the Shropshire Hundreds. Becoming forfeit to the Crown, the King bestowed the manor, about 1159, on Godfrey de Gamages, in which family it remained until the year 1230. Thereafter we find de Plaesto and de Seagrave enrolled as over-lords of Stottesdon; claiming free-warren, and holding free-courts, with all the rights and privileges thereto attached. Pushing on towards Cleobury Mortimer through a rough, broken country, we come by-and-by to a farmhouse called Walltown, occupying the site of a Roman encampment, whose outer lines are still clearly traceable. In Blakeway's time, the old road from Cleobury to Bridgnorth passed directly through the centre of the camp, 'entering at the Prætorian, and passing out at the Decuman Gate,' but its course has since been altered. Leaving Neen Savage in the vale upon our right, we cut off a corner by a lane that drops steeply to the Rea; and after sighting the broken walls of Lloyd's Paper-mill, looking like a ruined castle, we make our entry into Cleobury Mortimer, with the tall, twisted spire of St. Mary's church rising above the housetops, like a crooked, beckoning finger. So, while beating up for the 'Talbot,' let us call to mind a few facts about the history of the town. 'The village of Clebyri,' to quote Leland once again, 'standythe in the Rootes by est of Cle Hills, seven myles from Ludlow, in the Way to Beaudeley.' At the time of Domesday Survey 'Claiberie' was held by Queen Editha, and in mediæval days formed, with the circumjacent country, part of the great Honour of Mortimer. These haughty Mortimers, indeed, ruled the roost for many a long day at Cleobury; but their castle was destroyed during the Barons' Wars, and the site alone, 'nighe the churche by Northe,' was to be seen in Leland's time. Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's 'sweet Robin,' was for a while the lord of Cleobury. In the 'Lives of the Dudleys' we read: 'He was a compleat Gentleman in all suitable employments; an exact seaman, an excellent architect, mathematician, physician, chymist and what not. He was a handsome, personable man, tall of stature, red haired, and of an admirable comport; and above all noted for riding the great horse for tilting, and for his being the first of all that taught a dog to sit in order to catch partridges.' At Cleobury was born in the fourteenth century William Langland, the 'Poet of the Lollards.' About the year 1362, Langland composed those 'Visions of Piers Plowman,' which have caused their author to be acknowledged as one of the earliest of England's songsters. So much, then, for the brave days of old. Cleobury Mortimer as we see it to-day is a long, straggling, torpid townlet, whose agricultural proclivities are chequered by the mining industries carried on around Titterstone Clee Hill, and the woodcraft of the people who dwell in the neighbouring Forest of Wyre. Having secured a night's billet at the Talbot Inn, we sally forth again and proceed to spy out the land. Out in the High Street is seen a block of timeworn sandstone, whereon, according to a credible tradition, young Arthur Tudor's body was laid, he having died while travelling this way from Ludlow Castle to Bewdley. A few yards farther on we come to the parish church, a noble old pile dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin, the central and dominant feature of Cleobury town. Its graceful arches and elegant fenestration mark the Early English period; though the tower, the oldest portion of the fabric, dates back to Norman times. Far aloft soars the tall wooden steeple, whose old warped timbers, stripped of their clumsy boarding, are now being clad in a weatherproof garb of stout oak shingles. A large, handsome south porch gives access to the interior, where, inter alia, we observe a remarkably shapely chancel arch, and some modern stained glass in the east window, a memorial to William Langland, the poet, who may be descried therein, dreaming over his 'visions' as he reclines on a bank, with Malvern Hills away in the background. [Illustration: Cleobury-Mortimer, from the Wells.] A further ramble about the town introduces us to Cleobury College, a handsome building in a pleasant situation, erected, as a tablet informs us, by Sir Lacon W. Childe, of Kinlet, in 1740, and recently enlarged and improved. Then, down in a hollow of the highway, we stumble across the quaint view which our artist has here reproduced; the crooked church steeple soaring heavenwards above a tall Scotch fir, while the foreground is occupied by an arched grotto enclosing the crystal-clear, perennial spring, called the Wells, whence the townsfolk draw their unfailing supply of water. From Cleobury Mortimer we will make an excursion towards Bewdley; our route, for a large part of the way, lying through the heart of Wyre Forest. The forest is worth a visit, though nowadays the 'tall oaks' of Camden's time are conspicuous by their absence, having long since been cut down and carried off to smelt the iron ore of the Midlands, ere 'sea-coal' came into use. 'When soon the goodlie Wyre, that wonted was soe hie, Her statelie top to reare, ashamed to behold Her straighte and goodlie Woods unto the furnace sold; And looking on herself, by her decay doth see The miserie wherein her sister forests bee.' Covering a broken, dimpled country, with many quiet sylvan nooks enlivened by streams and brooklets, Wyre Forest is still a pleasant, wild, out-of-the-way district to ramble in; and is a favourite haunt of birds, butterflies, beetles, moths, and similar 'small deer,' as many a naturalist knows. The former extent and importance of the forest may be gathered from the fact that the County of Worcester is named after it, and that to this day it remains one of the largest tracts of woodland in the Marches of Wales. Old, disused coalpits here and there, shew that the coveted 'black diamonds' lie underfoot, though of a quality so poor as scarce to repay the cost of winning--'thank goodness,' one is minded to say. [Illustration: Dowles Manor House.] So by cross-country cuts and woodland ways we ramble through the forest, until, just short of the Bewdley road, we get a pretty peep of Dowles Manor-house, an ancient timbered dwelling seated in a dell, embosomed amidst trees, and bearing the date 1560 cut upon one of its old black beams. Then we come to Dowles church, a fifteenth-century building, though it doesn't look it, having been encased in brick about a hundred years ago. Strolling along the towing-path by Severn side, we presently catch sight of 'Fair seated Bewdley, a delightful Towne, Which Wyre's tall oaks with shady branches crown.' Situated on the western bank of the Severn, 'the Towne of Beaudley is sett on the Syde of an Hill, so comely, a Man cannot wish to see a Towne better,' as friend Leland remarks. 'At the Rising of the Sunne from East,' he tells us, 'the whole Towne glittereth as it were of gould'; an observation which shews that the famous antiquary had an eye for the picturesque. Bewdley Bridge, an elegant stone structure, built by Telford about a century ago in place of an older one, connects Bewdley itself with its staid old neighbour Wribbenhall. 'To this bridge resort many flatt long Vessells, to carry up and downe all manner of Marchandize,' writes Leland; but the railways have driven the traffic from the river, so that nowadays the merchants' stores and warehouses stand empty and idle beside the silent highway. Time was when this ancient borough of Bewdley drove a thriving trade in Welsh flannels, and other produce of the border; shipping her wares down-stream to Bristol, or sending them away on pack-horses by bridle-paths, such as the hollow way called the Welsh Gate that runs below Ticknell hill. The old 'George' posting-house, with a handful of substantial-looking houses, mostly of the Georgian era, lend a respectable, well-to-do air to the town: but its parish church, at the top of the main street, is unspeakably ugly; a red-brick abomination of the true 'churchwarden' type. Bewdley has been a borough town ever since the days of Edward IV.; and, until 1885, returned its own member to Parliament. A quarter of a mile south of the town stands the old manor-house of Ticknell. 'Bewdele, the Sanctuary Towne, hath hard by it the Kynge's Maner of Tikile, stonding on a Hill.' At Ticknell was formerly held the famous Court of the Marches: and hither, in 1502, the body of Prince Arthur was brought, after his death while travelling from Ludlow. The earlier house, mentioned by Leland, was destroyed by the Covenanters, but the mansion now standing has some pretensions to antiquity. The Tenbury and Bewdley railway, as it traverses the valley of Dowles brook, gives us some interesting glimpses of the Forest, whose russet foliage glows resplendent in the level rays of this September sunshine. After passing Cleobury station we run between steep, rocky banks, fringed with broom, heather and bracken, getting every now and again wide views of forest land overtopped by distant hills. Then Mawley Hall is seen, an old-time abode of the Blounts; and running past a large seventeenth-century brick-and-stone house called Reaside farm, we come by-and-by to Neen Sollers, a quiet agricultural village with an ancient cruciform church, whose old grey tower and spire are seen overtopping the nearer trees. Thenceforward we travel on amidst tranquil, rural landscapes, where the ruddy apples lie in piles about the orchards, and the willow-fringed Teme winds along through the vale on her way to meet Father Severn. Arrived at Tenbury station we quit the train, and, passing near the Castle Tump, a grass-grown mound marking the approach to the ancient ford, we traverse an old stone bridge and trudge on into Tenbury, a pleasant little Worcestershire town on the banks of Teme, a famous fishing river. The Swan Hotel at the entrance to the town looks the picture of an angler's inn; so there we will rest awhile. [Illustration: Burford.] A meadow path by Temeside leads us towards Burford, of whose fine church we presently obtain an effective view, its broad, richly embattled tower grouping prettily, as shewn in our sketch, with a quaint churchyard cross, and the feathery foliage of the surrounding trees. Burford church is of very ancient foundation, but has been much altered at various times, and has recently undergone a thorough restoration by Mr. Aston Webb, the well-known architect. There is much to interest the ecclesiologist in this handsome, well-cared-for church; but chief among its attractions is the wealth and variety of its monuments. A low table-tomb in the centre of the chancel bears the figure of Edmund Cornwaylle, clad in plate armour, and wearing the gilded spurs of an equitis aurati. Beneath a handsome ogee canopy in the adjacent wall lies the effigy of a female, with the following inscription: HERE LYETH THE BODY OF THE MOST NOBLE ELIZABETH, DAUGHTER OF JOHN OF GAUNT DUKE OF LANCASTER, OWN SISTER TO KING HENRY IV., WIFE OF JOHN HOLLAND, EARL OF HUNTINGTON, AND DUKE OF EXETER; AFTER MARRIED TO SIR JOHN CORNWALL, KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. SHE DIED THE 4TH YEAR OF HENRY VI. AN DNI MCCCCXXVI. A curious brass in the north-east corner of the chancel, bearing an inscription in old Norman-French, commemorates Dame Elizabeth, wife of Sir Elmon de Cornewaylle, a fourteenth-century knight. On the wall above is a remarkable triptych, a memento of the Cornewall family, said to be the work of one Melchior Salaboss, a foreign artist. There is a fine fifteenth-century font; and in the south chancel wall we notice two curious little 'heart-shrines,' small circular receptacles with lids, beneath a pointed arch. The custom was in early times, when a nobleman died abroad, to embalm his heart, and send it home to be buried amongst his kinsfolk; under the circumstances a convenient method of sepulture. After the Mortimers, the Cornewalls ruled here for generations as Barons of Burford, being under service to find five men to fight in Edward the Third's Welsh wars. The Ledwyche Brook, flowing into the Teme near Burford church, gives its name to Ledwyche farm, in bygone times the home of the famous Benbows. Retracing our steps to Tenbury station, a two-mile walk brings us to Boraston, scenes of rural industry enlivening the way. In yonder upland field the harvesters are busy carting the wheat, the golden shocks shewing up sharp and clear against the purple background of the Clee Hills; while the wavering hum of a threshing-machine drones a homely accompaniment. Then we descend into a vale, and trudge along the green alleys of a hop-yard, the fragrant bines drooping beneath their wealth of fruit and foliage, and clinging each to its neighbour with slender, outstretched tendrils. Boraston comprises a handful of rustic dwellings, scattered about a little church, one or two of the older ones displaying half-timbered gables towards the road. Boraston church has been much restored, but retains several early-cusped windows, and an old roof whose rafters are carried half-way down the southward wall. On either side the nave is a curious, plain, arched recess, the use whereof is not apparent; and there are traces of a very ancient doorway, now built up. The apsidal east end, a south porch, and a shingled bell-turret above the western gable, are the most salient points of the exterior. Nash chapel, a mile or so to the north, is almost a replica of Boraston. This church has been quaintly described by Mr. Cranage as, 'a "Decorated" building which is _not decorated_.' Court-of-Hill is the most interesting house in this locality. In the broken country west of Boraston lies the hamlet of Greete, with a small, aisle-less church, dedicated to St. James, of Norman and Early English date. The pleasant rural vicarage and oldfashioned Court-house farm are almost its only neighbours, but about a mile to the west stands Stoke House, a plain but good example of a brick-built Tudor residence. Very rustic and unsophisticated are the country folk hereabouts, even in these fin-de-siecle days; and it is within living memory that Parson J----, coming to take up his new duty in a neighbouring parish, walked into the village driving his cow before him! Time was when some of these country parsons were mighty hunters before the Lord. There is a story of one of them who, when about to start for the meet, got wind that his Bishop was coming to pay him a visitation. Jumping into bed, scarlet jacket and all, he leaves word with his old housekeeper that he is ill upstairs, and the tale is repeated to his lordship. 'Dear me, I'm very sorry; tell him I'll walk up and see how he's getting on,' says the Bishop. The message is duly delivered, whereupon our Nimrod sends back his reply, 'No, no, it's quite impossible; I'm down with a shocking bad attack of _scarlet_ fever!' The road ascends as we make our way northwards, with quarries and lime-works defacing the heights that buttress Clee Hill on this side. After a stiffish bit of collar work we come to Whitton Chapel, a simple, solitary building, with a good though plain Norman south doorway, and a primitive-looking old tower. A bowshot farther on we enter the demesne of Whitton Court, a charming, seventeenth-century mansion, whose ruddy old brick gables, clustered chimney stacks and mullioned windows, all wreathed in luxuriant ivy and set against a background of autumnal foliage, make as pleasant a picture as one could wish to see. Inside and out alike, this venerable abode is a delight to the lover of things antique and curious, its owners having displayed rare good taste in such renovations as have been found needful. Though in the main of Elizabethan style, the oldest portions of the house date back as early as the fourteenth century; and some richly carved woodwork, some good pictures and curious old tapestry, are features of the interior. An admirable sketch of Whitton Court appeared in Mr. Oliver Baker's 'Ludlow Town and Neighbourhood.' Tinker's Hill is full in view towards the west as we push on for Hope Bagot, its tree-begirt slopes crowned by the old British earthwork called Caynham Camp, of which the Parliamentarians availed themselves when besieging the town of Ludlow. In the vale below lies Caynham church, an ancient but much restored edifice, which has a curious triple chancel arch of rather unusual character. Ashford Bowdler, with its quaint old church overlooking the Teme, lies but a few miles beyond, in a picturesque nook of the county adjacent to the Herefordshire border. Hope Bagot itself stands high up in the world, looking out across the pleasant vale of Teme from its 'hope,' or upland valley, among the foothills of Titterstone Clee. So now we stroll on to the church, which is seen a short distance away under the shoulder of Knowl Hill. It is an ancient place, and, with its grey stone walls and timbered porch, falls in pleasingly with its rustic environment, tempting the wayfarer to make a closer acquaintance. Many notable objects here meet our gaze, a curious sedilia and piscina in the chancel, to reach which we pass beneath a chancel arch evidently built by the Normans; and the plain, bowl-shaped font is perhaps of equal antiquity, while the carving upon the old oak pulpit calls for a passing notice. A great dark yew-tree flings its shadow athwart the graveyard, and yonder is the Holy Well, famed in bygone times as a sovereign remedy for curing sore eyes. But the day wears towards a close, and it behoves us to be up and away; for it is a far cry yet to our night's bivouac at Cleobury Mortimer. So climbing the steep flank of Titterstone, we win our way to the high road, 'high' indeed at this point, where we stand some 1,250 feet above the sea. Far and wide extends the bounteous landscape, a maze of hill and dale, tilth and pasturage; its remoter features veiled in the soft, warm haze of an autumn afternoon, lending an added charm to everyday, familiar objects. Swinging along downhill we pass Hopton Wafers, a high-lying village, bowered in trees, beside a rill coming down from Clee. Anon the jolly moon rolls up above the dusky breadths of Wyre Forest; children, homeward-bound from blackberry gathering, give us a 'Good-evening' as they pass; the night wind rustles the silvery willows beside the brook, and a wandering owl raises his melancholy shout from somewhere in the vicinity. And so beneath the frosty stars we enter old Cleobury again, and, passing the substantial looking manor-house, come to a late meal at the Talbot, just as the curfew bell in the steeple hard by tolls the 'knell of parting day.' [Illustration: Ancient Cross at Highley.] WESTWARD HO! TOWARDS THE WELSH BORDER. Skirting the south-eastern suburbs of the County-town, the Minsterley branch line carries us in a devious course beside the Meole Brook, amidst quiet, rural scenery, calling for no particular notice. It is worth while, however, to alight at Hanwood station, in order to take a look at one or two ancient farmhouses that lie not far away. [Illustration: Moat Hall. Hanwood.] The finest of these is Moat Hall, a place which, though altered by recent restorations, retains some interesting features. No less than three very handsome old carved oak chimney-pieces are still to be seen, the arms of the Beringtons being traceable among their ornamentation; and the domestic chapel, used in bygone times by those of the 'old faith,' retains its panelled dadoes and rich plaster ceiling. The place was of course haunted; but the ghost, with a fine sense of propriety, none too common amongst such gentry, has departed with a former owner of the estate. At Hanwood we traverse a small local Black Country, where an outlier of the Shropshire coalfield lies under foot, and where stumpy colliery chimneys and whimsey-wheels deface the nearer landscape. But all this soon gives place to the good open country, as the train approaches Pontesbury station; and tall, cloud-capped hills begin to assert themselves, in the direction whither we are bound. There is not much to detain the traveller here, for 'Ponsbyri,' as John Leland has it, 'is but an uplandisch Tounlet, 4 miles from Shrewsbyri.' The church, nevertheless, was originally a collegiate foundation, and still boasts a fine, massive tower, besides one or two other good features. Of the 'great Manor Place, or Castelle,' whose ruins Leland saw 'on the south side of the Chirche Yarde,' not one stone now remains upon another. To Pontesbury, some six centuries ago, came the famous Bishop Swinfield; paying, as is recorded, the modest sum of one penny for the ten-mile journey across the hills from Stretton, which may stand, we take it, as a record fare even to this day. Be that as it may, we now pass on to Minsterley, the terminus of the line; a place that, whatever attractions it may possess, can certainly lay small claim to beauty. Even the Miners' Arms Inn, by its bleak-looking, brick façade, belies the comfort to be found within; and it is not until we come to the parish church that things take a turn for the better. The little edifice is, perhaps, rather curious than beautiful. Built in the seventeenth century, it has superseded an earlier church of great but unknown antiquity, reputed to have been one of the most ancient ecclesiastical foundations in Shropshire. Externally, the red-brick front presents a queer combination of skulls, hour-glasses, scythes and cherubs' heads, wrought amidst the classic entablature of the Jacobean portal; a good example of the bad style then in vogue. There is not much else to detain us here, so let us look within. The interior of Minsterley church is sober, plain and simple; but is relieved from the commonplace by the rich, dark woodwork of its massive oak pulpit and chancel screen, and the great sounding-board which impends above the former. Suspended from wooden pegs, near the western end of the church, hang some half-dozen Maiden Garlands, or Love Tokens, as they are sometimes called. These curious objects are constructed of ribbons, bows and rosettes, stretched upon a small bee-hive shaped framework. A Love Token was intended to commemorate a betrothed lover who had remained faithful during life, his or her fiancée having died during the time of betrothal. There is, however, another version anent the use of these Maiden Garlands. When a young damsel died, a girl of the same age as the deceased walked at the head of the funeral procession, carrying a Maiden Garland, with a pair of white gloves attached, as an emblem of the purity of the departed. These Garlands at Minsterley bear various dates in the last century, and are among the best preserved of their kind. Quitting the village by the Bishop's Castle road, we espy upon our right hand the half-timbered gables of Minsterley Hall, a modernized manor-house of the Thynne family, now the property of the Marquess of Bath. The hills close in as we advance, the road climbing their slopes by a long, steady ascent. Away to the left rise some great refuse-heaps, where lead has been mined at least as far back as the time of the Roman Emperors; for in Shrewsbury Museum may be seen a large 'pig' of lead, found in this neighbourhood, which bears the inscription IMP . HADRANI . AUG. Pursuing the course of a wimpling brook, our road now leads through the recesses of Hope Vale, a narrow dingle whose sides present an unbroken expanse of greenwood, its verdure looking fresh and bright after the passage of the recent rains, while the carol of many a feathered friend enlivens our onward march. By-and-by this gives place to more open scenery as we approach the Gravel Mine, which is believed to be of Roman origin. Half a mile away behind the hills lies Shelve, a village given over to mining; whence, by cross-country tracks, the Stiperstones may be ascended. This remarkable range forms one of a series of roughly parallel ridges, which traverse this portion of Shropshire in a north-east to south-westerly direction. Huge, timeworn masses of quartz rock, cropping out here and there upon the skyline, give to these hills a strange, wild appearance; while such names as Devil's Chair, Nipstone Rock, and the like, indicate their traditional origin. One story tells how the Devil, rising up from his chair on the Stiperstones, and taking a three-mile stride across Hope Vale, planted his foot upon the Lord's Stone, a conspicuous rock on the hills to the westward, where, it is said, his footprint may to this day be seen. Excelsior! is still the order of the day, on resuming our onward route, and the landscape assumes a bleaker look as the road slants steadily upwards. Marsh Pool, a small mere half choked by weeds, appears close at hand below the fern-clad slopes of Stapeley Hill; while Corndon soars aloft like a real mountain before us, dwarfing all his lesser neighbours. At the crossways we bear away westwards, striking presently into a rough, rambling cart-track, that leads up the unenclosed hillside. [Illustration: Mitchells Fold.] Half a mile of this sort of thing brings us to Mitchell's Fold, which, to compare small things with great, may be called the Stonehenge of Shropshire. A dozen or more large slabs of stone are grouped into an irregular circle, most of the stones having long since fallen down, though three or four of them still remain upright, the tallest standing about 6 feet above the ground. Tradition, the garrulous jade, has her own story to tell of how Mitchell's Fold first came into existence. Once upon a time, it seems, there was a great famine throughout all this countryside, so that the good folk had much ado to 'keep the wolf from the door.' All they had to live upon was the milk from a white fairy Cow, that, night and morning, came to this spot to be milked. Thus everybody found plenty of milk, provided no one drew more than a pailful. At length, however, came a wicked old witch, named Mitchell, who proceeded to milk the good white cow into a riddle, or sieve, which she carried in her hand, so that presently the cow ran dry. Discovering the trick that had been played upon her, the cow became highly indignant, and, kicking over the riddle, vanished from the scene, and was never met with in these parts again. Indeed, it is said she turned crazy, and going off into a far country, became transformed into the famous Dun Cow slain by Guy, Earl of Warwick. As for the wicked old witch, she was turned into one of these stones on the hill, and the other stones were set around to keep her safely in; and so it comes to pass that the place to this day bears the name of Mitchell's Fold. With regard to the beneficent fairy Cow, one is minded to conjecture in what relation she stood to the wonderful Bull, whose exploits we heard of when at Hyssington. That point, however, we respectfully leave for antiquaries to decide, and now push on again for Chirbury. The west wind greets us lustily, as we tramp in the teeth of the breeze across acres of heather and bracken; pausing now and then to scan the wild moorland prospect, or to watch the gyrations of a brace of plovers, as they circle overhead. Calling in for a draught of milk at the first farmhouse on the edge of cultivation, we pass the time of day with the master, who gives us a hearty Shropshire greeting. 'You be come to a desprit lonesome place,' remarks our friend; 'and 'tis tedious work traipsin' about them beggarly lands such weather as this; but step in and sit ye down, and my missus 'ool bring us summat to drink.' So down we sit in the roomy kitchen-place, surrounded by all the homely gear of the goodwife's daily use; taking occasional pulls at Nature's wholesome tipple from big blue china mugs, and discussing the affairs of the countryside like men to the manner born. Once more afoot, we traverse a stretch of broken, intricate country, and, surmounting a ridge of low hills, drop downwards into the lower reaches of Marrington Dingle, a narrow, picturesque defile watered by the Camlad, whose 'crankling nookes' we hope to explore later on. On the farther bank of the brook rises Heightley Hall, a mere farmhouse now, though in bygone days it was the ancestral home of the Newtons, an ancient family of more than local fame. The first to settle here, in 1501, was Sir Peter Newton, builder of the old Council House at Salop; and ere the last scion died out, in 1681, the family had given many High Sheriffs to Shropshire. Sir Isaac Newton, the great philosopher, was connected with the Newtons of Heightley. The Hall itself has been much altered and modernized: but in the terraced gardens, with their rows of old yew trees, a large fishpond, and some remains of an ancient corn-mill down by the banks of the Camlad, we seem to see traces of a better state of things. Peeping over the nearer tree-tops, the old grey timeworn tower of its ancient Priory church announces our approach to Chirbury, a picturesque village which can lay claim to a venerable past. Tradition avers that the monastery which once stood here was founded early in the tenth century by Ethelfleda, the 'Lady of the Mercians,' daughter of Alfred the Great; to whom is also attributed the building of Chirbury Castle, which stood at a spot known as 'King's Orchard,' on the outskirts of the village. In the eleventh of Henry III., a Priory of Black Canons of St. Augustine, established at Snead, a few years previously, by Robert de Boulers, was removed to Chirbury, where it flourished until the Dissolution. Bishop Swinfield twice visited Chirbury Priory in the year 1285, censuring the Prior upon the first occasion for laxity of discipline. His strictures, we may suppose, had the desired effect; for the Bishop subsequently found reason to commend the monks of Chirbury for their almsgiving and piety. Born at Montgomery Castle in the year 1581, the celebrated Lord Herbert of Chirbury spent much of his time at this place, whence he derived his title. Lord Herbert was created first Baron Chirbury, one of the titles still borne by the Earls of Powis. His literary achievements attracted considerable notice in the reign of James I. So now let us turn our attention to St. Michael's church, which makes a pleasant picture, its massive western tower soaring above a great yew tree, and roses, ivy and creepers, wreathed about the headstones in the foreground. The existing parish church is all that remains of the great Priory church of the Austin Canons, 'Llanffynnon-wen,' the 'Church of the Fair Spring,' to give it its poetical Celtic name. A runnel of pure water still rises on the outskirts of the village; and some few years ago a stone water-conduit was brought to light in a garden close to the church. Though shorn of much of its ancient distinction, Chirbury church is by no means devoid of interest. Owing to neglect and supineness in bygone times, the fabric was fast falling to decay; but of late years the venerable building has been put into a state of thorough repair, thanks to the judicious care of the Rev. John Burd, the present vicar. The tower door, by which we enter, is surmounted by a small carved figure representing the Virgin and Child. Upon the stone door-jamb are several of those nicks, or scratches, we have puzzled over before--could yonder old yew tree but speak, perchance it might explain that they were caused by sharpening arrows, in the days when long-bows were fashioned from its tough, sinewy limbs. The interior of Chirbury church is broad, spacious and lofty; for those Austin Friars loved a roomy church to preach in. Owing to the 'spreading' of the roofs, the nave arcades and the walls above lean considerably outwards, though the walls of the aisles are upright; and there are many evidences that, for some reason or other, the present church was 'run up' in a hurry. There was formerly a fine old roodscreen at Chirbury church; but it was removed many years since to Montgomery. On the wall near the chancel arch we notice a curious tablet to 'Ric Lloid, 1589,' with the Lloyd arms, and a skull, or 'memento mori,' set in a deeply sunk circle. Another small mural tablet displays a shield and the letters H. M., the initials of Hugh Myddleton, the last Prior of Chirbury. The font, which is large and extremely archaic-looking, was rescued some years ago from a neighbouring garden, where it had long done duty as a water-trough! From its close resemblance to certain ancient holy-water stoups, recently exhibited at Shrewsbury, Mr. Burd, the vicar, considers this font was originally the holy-water stoup of the earlier monastic church. There is a curious entry in the Parish Book, for the year of grace 1808, which goes to shew it cost more in those days to pay for ale, to assuage the Psalm Singers' thirst, than to defray the cost of their musical instruction! Payment was made, in 1604, to provide 'a bell and cordes to kepe the dogge out of the Churche, in tymes of divine service and preachinge'--autre temps autre moeurs. Out in the churchyard, near the vestry door, lie the mortal remains of a former vicar, his brother, and their two wives, whereof the united ages amounted to 378 years, or the respectable average of over 94 years each. A portion of a richly moulded pillar, or rather 'respond,' and some beautiful thirteenth-century floor tiles in the porch of an adjacent house, are remains of the old monkish church. [Illustration: Virgin & Child, Chirbury.] Some few years ago a small bronze matrix, representing the Virgin and Child, was dug up by chance in Chirbury churchyard, and is now in the possession of the vicar, by whose courtesy we are enabled to give a sketch of a cast from it. The late Mr. Bloxam considered, from the costume and the pose of the figure, that this interesting matrix dates from about the latter part of the fourteenth, or the beginning of the fifteenth century. It is of a kind very rare, if not unique, in this country. In Chirbury vicarage is preserved a very valuable Library of Chained Books, probably the most complete private collection of its kind in this country: 'Antique Books--rare old Books-- Gathered from many old corners and nooks!' The books, 207 in number, treat mainly of theological matters, and are of various dates from 1530 to 1684; most of them retain the iron chains and swivels by which they were fastened in the cabinet. They probably formed part of the library established at Montgomery Castle by George Herbert, the poet and divine; and were transferred to their present resting place by the Rev. Edward Lewis, who, during nearly half of the seventeenth century, was vicar of Chirbury. Being a man of strong Puritan leanings, Parson Lewis was badly treated by the Royalists. One Sunday morning, when the vicar was in the act of addressing his flock, a troop of horsemen rode into the church, haled the good pastor out of his pulpit, and carried him prisoner to Captain Corbet, who at the time was in command of the King's forces in that locality. In the secluded rural district around Chirbury, the oldfashioned rustic Stage Plays held their own until the early decades of the present century, long after they had ceased elsewhere; and to this day one may occasionally meet with an ancient greybeard, who in his salad days has figured upon the boards. These performances generally took place close to some country inn, which, while providing refreshment for the thirsty audience, formed a sort of 'green-room' for the actors themselves. The play, in which two male actors usually took part, was performed, to the scraping of a fiddle, upon a stage improvised for the occasion, by placing some boards upon a couple of farm-waggons borrowed for the purpose. The plays themselves appear to have been of a simple, not over-refined character, interspersed with broad jokes and scraps of local badinage, to suit the taste of the bucolic audience. 'Prince Mucidorus, or St. George and the Fiery Dragon,' 'Rigs of the Times,' 'Valentine and Orson,' and a piece entitled 'Doctor Forster,' were the favourites. The hero of the latter is none other than our old acquaintance Faust, and it was supposed to be only acted on the sly, being considered such a very wicked play that something was sure to happen to put a stop to the performance; and the arrival upon the stage of his Satanic Majesty was regarded as the signal for an outbreak of thunder, lightning and hail, if nothing worse. A mile or so out of Chirbury, in an undulating, well wooded park, on the verge of Marrington Dingle, stands the ancient timbered mansion of Marrington Hall, 'a very noble and sweete place,' as old Pepys would have said. In early documents the name is Maritune, though it was always known to the Welsh as 'Hafod-wen,' the 'Fair Summer Dwelling,' a name as appropriate as pretty, for a more delightful situation for such an 'abode of ancient peace' it would be difficult to imagine. [Illustration: Ancient Sundial at Marrington.] Embosomed amidst ancestral oaks, under the lee of a range of high, heather-clad hills, this old Elizabethan homestead faces out towards the distant highlands of Montgomery, commanding a prospect of rare extent and beauty. Near one corner of the mansion grows a hollow oak, of enormous bulk and immemorial age, a veritable patriarch among his fellows: while upon the adjacent lawn rises the Sundial shewn in our sketch. This curious Sundial, one of the most remarkable of its kind in England, consists of a stone monolith with chamfered edges set upon a large square base, the whole structure being about 5 or 6 feet in height. The figures 1595, cut upon the stone, mark the date of its erection; and around the base runs the inscription: FOR . CHARITI . BID . ME . ADW . WHO . WROUGHT . THIS . STONE . FOR . THE . TOMB . OF . R . LL. A queer figure, carved upon one face of the pillar, may pass for a portrait of Richard Lloyd, the founder; whose arms, with those of the Newtons and other local families, appear upon the shaft. On the top of the pillar is fixed a sundial, or gnomon; while smaller dials were inserted into every nook and cranny whither the sun's rays could penetrate. Upon the shaft are inscribed various suitable mottoes: THESE . SHADES . DO . FLEET . FROM . DAY . TO . DAY; AND . SO . THIS . LIFE . PASSETH . AWAIE: DEUS . MIHI . LUX: FINIS . ITINERIS . SEPULCHRUM: FUI . UT . ES; ERIS . UT . SUM: UT . HORA . SIC . VITA: etc., besides many devices and emblems more or less appropriate to the subject. In the reign of Henry III., the Manor of Marrington was presented by Sir Robert de Boulers, founder of Chirbury Priory, to a kinsman, and was held for many generations by that ancient family. Passing subsequently to the Lloyds, a Welsh rhymester concocted for the occasion the following curious couplet: 'Lle Bowdler mor ber ar bange, Yw lle Dafydd Lloyd ifange.' 'Where Bowdler so long had spit and board, Is now the place of young David Lloyd.' To vary the route, we will return to Chirbury by way of Marrington Dingle. Here the Camlad has carved out for itself a deep, narrow gorge, running in a due northerly direction; a famous place for wildflowers, ferns and mosses, which flourish amain beneath the cool shade of the overarching copses, draping with a mantle of luscious verdure the banks of the winding stream. Tranquil and secluded as is the vale to-day, there are evidences that, in the remote past, Marrington Dingle has proved a bone of contention to successive races of men. Camps and earthworks are planted upon many a salient corner and vantage point: and artificial tumuli abound upon the neighbouring lands. Rhyd-y-Groes, on the ancient course of the Camlad, tells a different tale; for here, there is reason to believe, the monks in mediæval times stationed their processional cross, while the pilgrims passed through the rippling shallows at Rhyd-y-Groes, the 'Ford of the Cross.' As we make our way thus towards Chirbury again through these quiet, unfrequented byways, a restful calm, 'hushing the harboured winds,' overspreads the pleasant landscape. The sun has taken his last look at Chirbury, ere we re-enter the village and come to our night's lodging at the Herbert Arms, beneath the shadow of St. Michael's old steeple. 'Fresh are the fields, and, like a bloom, they wear This delicate evening.' * * * * * Proceeding northwards upon our travels from Chirbury, we cross the Camlad, and, after joining the Newtown road, surmount a low watershed and enter the valley of the Rea. Marton Pool, a good broad sheet of water, comes in view upon the right; and then we pass near Binweston, a diminutive township with an old, faded manor-house, encompassed by a dry moat, and retaining a little oak panelling, but not much else to boast of. Hampton Hall, the seventeenth-century brick mansion of the Whitakers, lies farther away in the same direction. Grand cumulus clouds, marshalled along the horizon, threaten broken, changeable weather; and a smartish shower now warns us to look out for squalls. But 'for a morning rain leave not yr journey,' as wise old George Herbert has it; so we plod steadily on in the brunt of the breeze, prepared for whatever the Clerk of the Weather may see fit to send our way. Ere long we come to Worthen, a village of which least said, perhaps, soonest mended; for to our minds the place has little to recommend it. The large parish church is the only building worthy of note, and its attractions are soon exhausted. Worthen Hall, at the farther end of the village, is an early eighteenth-century stuccoed house of unassuming appearance. Thenceforward we travel along with low, tumbled hills upon our left, while in the opposite quarter we look across the flat Rea valley to the high, wild ridges of the Stiperstones, whose flanks, still shaggy with woodland, formed a royal hunting forest under the Saxon kings. At Aston Rogers we take a glance at the Pound House, a rather shabby-looking timbered cottage of late fifteenth-century date, with remains of a circular moat; and anon we diverge from our route to visit the site of Caurse Castle. A stiff climb through a tangle of brushwood brings us to the steep, green mounds, whereon the castle stood, though but little of it remains save a few fragments of rough, weedgrown masonry. So far as one can gather therefrom, the building took the form of a parallelogram, which adapted itself to the natural trend of the ridge, and appears to have had a round-tower at each corner. At the highest point stood the keep; and a well, supplied by the stream hard by, lay somewhere within the enceinte. The position must have been a strong one, in days when artillery was in its infancy; and it commanded the avenues of approach in every direction. Caurse Castle was founded by Roger Fitz Corbet, one of William's Norman knights, very soon after the Conquest; and, from its exposed situation, must have formed a salient point in the series of border strongholds, which the Normans drew around these Shropshire Marches. After having been taken and burned by the Welsh, the castle was recaptured and garrisoned for Henry II., in 1165. Long afterwards the place passed to the Barons Stafford, and was eventually captured, and its defences 'slighted' by the Parliamentarians, in 1645. Away to the westward looms a wild, hilly, sparsely peopled region, known in olden times as Caurseland. 'This Caurseland,' to use John Leland's phrase, 'sumtyme longinge to the Duke of Buckyngham, crooketh mervelously about the upper Parts of Shropeshire.' It still maintains its isolated character, though the forest that once overspread this portion of the county has long since ceased to exist. Leaving Caurse Castle behind us, we next bend our steps towards Westbury, whose church, though of ancient origin, has been shockingly modernized. In the churchyard there is a curious epitaph to one Edward Gittins, a local blacksmith, who probably composed the effusion himself. [Illustration: Marche-Manor Farm.] Marche-manor Farm, the subject of the adjoining sketch, lies in a secluded dell, not far from Westbury. It is an ancient place, with a beautiful oak parlour lighted by long, low, lattice-paned windows; and contains a richly carved and panelled mantelpiece. Staircase, floors, rafters, all are of heart-of-oak; shewing how plentiful was the 'Shropshire weed' in the early days of the seventeenth century, when the house was built. Marche-manor formed part of the great Barony of Caurse Castle, and was held by the Fitz Corbets under Roger de Montgomery, the Conqueror's vicegerent; but it is one of those places which are blessed in not having a history. The trees and shrubberies, by which the old place is surrounded, set off to great advantage its ancient timbered gables. A pretty lakelet close at hand is a favourite haunt of wildfowl; and the soft fluting of coots and waterhens, hunting among the reeds, makes a pleasant accompaniment as we sit a-sketching here. Crossing the Welshpool road, as it traverses Wattlesborough Heath--nowadays a heath no longer--we press on to Great Woolaston; whose unpretentious, eighteenth-century chapel, otherwise not specially attractive, contains one memorial of the past familiar to many Salopians. [Illustration: Old Thomas Parr.] This is a certain brass plate, set into the wall, and bearing engraved upon its surface the portrait here shewn, with the following inscription: 'THE OLD, OLD, VERY OLD MAN, THOMAS PARR, was born at the Glyn, in the Township of Winnington, within This Chapelry of Great Willaston, and Parish of Alberbury, in the County of Salop, In the Year of our Lord 1483. He lived in the Reigns of Ten Kings and Queens of England (viz.), K. Edwd 4th, K. Edwd 5th, K. Richd 3rd, K. Hen. 7th, K. Hen. 8th, K. Edwd 6th, Q. Mary, Q. Eliz., K. James 1st, and K. Chas 1st. Died the 13th and was buryed in Westminster Abby on the 15th of November, 1635; Aged 152 Years and 9 months.' Taylor, the 'Water Poet,' writing in the year 1635, in a work entitled 'The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man,' tells us Thomas Parr was an early riser, sober and industrious, and thus describes his appearance when advanced in years: 'Though old age his face with wrinkles fill, Hee hath been handsome, and is comely still; Well-faced, and though his Beard not oft corrected, Yet neate it grows, not like a beard neglected.' All sorts of tales were current concerning this famous centenarian. It is said that when the Cockneys, having heard of his renown, came to seek for Old Parr to carry him before the King, they addressed themselves to a very aged man whom they supposed to be Thomas Parr; and were not a little astonished when he replied, 'Oh, it ain't me, Lor' bless yer, it's my _father_ as you wants!' That unfortunate visit to London, indeed, seems to have undermined the old man's constitution; and who knows but that, had he stayed snugly at home in his native Shropshire, Thomas Parr might have been alive and hearty to this day. Left a widower at the age of 122, our hero sought consolation in the arms of a fair daughter of Wales. Yet three years later, we hear of this ancient Lothario doing penance at Alberbury church, for having broken his marriage vow in an intrigue with a certain frail maid named Catherine Milton. As the story goes, when brought before Charles I., the King, congratulating Thomas upon so long outrunning the allotted span, demanded what else he had done to boast of. Old Parr, taken aback by the question, could think of nothing better than his affair with Catherine Milton; whereupon His Majesty exclaimed, 'Oh fie, Thomas, fie! can you remember nothing but your vices?' [Illustration: Braggington Hall. Shropshire.] But to resume. Beyond Woolaston, in an outlying nook of the county, we happen upon the fine old Jacobean mansion called Braggington. As may be gathered from our sketch, it is a massive brick-and-stone edifice, with mullioned windows and tall, steep gables, surmounted by stone finials. From the recessed central bay projects the main portal, with its weatherworn stone pillars, and architrave displaying the date 1674, and oak, nail-studded door. Large, elaborately ornamented leaden spout-heads, are seen on each side below the roof. A broad old oak staircase, with massive newels bearing the device of some ancient family, is the most prominent feature inside; the place having gone much to decay, and being now used as a farmhouse. Out in the garden they are hiving the bees, and the beating of kettles and frying-pans makes a quaint, odd, tinkling sound, like the strains of a toy symphony, as we take our leave. From Braggington we ramble on to Coedway, and soon lose ourselves once more among cool, leafy corners and crankling nooks, where Nature reigns untended: 'Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heavens above, And the byway nigh me.' Yonder a few miles away rise the Breidden Hills, 'brewing the weather, like a Lapland witch,' and looking wonderfully mountainous for their inches; with lights and shadows chasing each other athwart their wooded flanks, and their summits wreathed in a cope of lowering storm cloud. These hills, indeed, have a reputation to sustain in the matter of meteorology, as their name Breith-him, 'Broken-weather,' obviously indicates. Rising abruptly from Severn-side to a height of 1,324 feet, this isolated range is a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around, keeping watch and ward over the broad Vale of Shrewsbury, much as Gibraltar Rock guards the entrance to the Mediterranean. An upthrow of volcanic rock has here thrust the local strata aside, and by its intrusion has produced the picturesque, broken scenery, found upon the flanks of the range. Like most of these border heights, the Breidden Hills are crowned by camps and ancient 'castells'; while some authorities have located the scene of Caractacus's last battle amidst their rocky fastnesses. Cefn-y-Castell, near Moel-y-Golia, the highest point of the range, is a good example of an early British earthwork; and Bausley Hill, an eastern spur, is the supposed site of a Roman station, in connection with the ford across the Severn at the western foot of the Breiddens. Offa's Dyke traverses the country in the same quarter. Rodney's Pillar, a memento of that hero's naval victories, is a noticeable object from afar, crowning the summit of an isolated peak. Just across the Welsh border, we find the Old Hand and Diamond Inn at Coedway, a quiet little roadside house, near the junction of Severn and Vyrnwy, whither fishermen resort for the sport on those well-known waters. Mine host is himself an ardent devotee of 'the gentle art,' and a guide and counsellor of no mean calibre in matters piscatorial. Close beside the Vyrnwy, a few miles hence, stands Melverley, about the most un-come-at-able village in Shropshire; 'Melverley, God help us!' is the local phrase, which sufficiently explains its own meaning. Yet they say if you ask a native whence he hails, he will reply, 'Whoy from Melverley, wheer else?' as though not to know Melverley argued oneself unknown. Duly rested and refreshed we now set forth from Coedway, and, passing the Prince's Oak, a memento of King George the Fourth, we follow a road that gives us pretty peeps of Loton Park and its handsome red-brick Hall, the residence of Sir Bryan Leighton, whose forbears have been seated here since the Conqueror's time. Close under the lee of Loton Park nestles the diminutive village of Alberbury, a quiet, old-world looking spot, innocent of any 'public;' and where Her Majesty's postal affairs are conducted by the universal provider who runs the one and only shop. But Alberbury church, the subject of our next illustration, will well repay a visit. [Illustration: Alberbury Church. Shropshire.] It is a structure of many different dates, and has all the charm that such variety lends. The Loton Chapel, seen in the front of the picture, was built about the year 1340, its windows having the rather intricate tracery in vogue about that time. Overhead we get a glimpse of the tower, a work of earlier date, with its curious, steep, saddle-backed roof, and primitive weather-vane. The east end of the chancel, the oldest part of the church, is pure Norman work. An ancient churchyard cross with tall, slender shaft, backed by the sombre verdure of some yew trees, adds a pleasing feature to the scene. The south aisle, used time out of mind as a chapel by the Leightons of Loton Hall, has a richly ornamented open-timber roof, with cherubs' heads cut upon the brackets that support it; and the massive old carved oak benches, black with age, should not be overlooked. Quite out of the common, also, are the windows already referred to, with their peculiar geometrical tracery, and scraps of fourteenth-century glass. An ugly barrel-vaulted ceiling evidently disguises the original timbered roof of the nave, one principal whereof is still visible at the west end, with its big stone supporting corbels. The chancel is lighted by two semi-headed windows, surmounted by a circular light, all of Norman date; and some fine brasses and mural tablets, to the Leightons and the Lysters, are seen here and there about the interior. 'By Alberbyri Chirche,' notes Leland, 'appere the Ruines of Fulk Guarine the noble Warriar's Castel.' The remains of this early, thirteenth-century stronghold, rise a stone's throw south-westward from the church; but they are so fragmentary and devoid of detail as to have little attraction for the antiquary; indeed, one crumbling ivy-mantled tourelle is about the sum-total of the fabric. Alberbury Priory, an establishment of Benedictine monks, founded by Fulk FitzWarine early in the thirteenth century, is represented by a few Gothic fragments in a farmhouse called White Abbey, close to the Severn, a long mile north-east of the village. The principal remains are the groined ceiling of the chapel, which springs from stone corbels, and has curious carvings, at the intersections of the ribs, representing the Agnus Dei, a monk's head, and an angel wrestling with the Evil One; and one or two good pointed doorways in the lower story. The monastery was suppressed in Henry the Sixth's reign, when the estate was granted to All Souls' College, Oxford. Turning our backs upon the Severn, which here flows along in easy curves between low, red, clayey banks, we now pass through a pair of tall iron gates near Alberbury church, and make our way viâ Loton Deer Park to Wattlesborough Castle. The walk across the Park introduces us to some picturesque bits of woodland relieved by rough, rocky dingles, where old gnarled hawthorns and hazel bushes thrive amain; while from the higher reaches of the Park there is a varied prospect over the neighbouring countryside, half English in its snug, cultivated lowlands, half Welsh where the shaggy hills loom stern and wild. Arrived at Wattlesborough, our tramp is rewarded by the sight of the curious old farmhouse shewn in the sketch over page. In the centre, surrounded by buildings of no particular age, rises a low, massive, quadrangular tower of good ashlar masonry, with the flat buttresses characteristic of Norman work, and one or two windows of later date. This tower, with portions of a projecting wing, formed part of the original Castle, and is very solidly constructed, the tower walls measuring as much as 7 or 8 feet in thickness. A circular stone stairway leads up to the several stages, some of the chambers retaining their rude stone fireplaces, and other simple contrivances; while on the topmost floor is a sort of closet, or prison-hole, and certain slanting ledges on the wall indicating the position of an earlier and lower roof. There are said to have formerly been three other towers at Wattlesborough Castle, but that they were pulled down to provide stones for building the Loton Chapel, at Alberbury. Be that as it may, the Castle certainly seems to have covered more ground at one time; and the sites of two moats, a watch-tower and drawbridge, are pointed out in an orchard on the western side of the farmhouse. [Illustration: Wattlesborough Castle.] Planted upon an outlying spur of the Breidden Hills, Wattlesborough must have held a position of some strategic importance, controlling with Alberbury Castle the passes of the Severn, and the road into Wales between this and Caurse Castle. Of its history, so far as we are aware, there is little to be said. A Fitz-Corbet held Wattlesborough under Roger de Montgomery, at the time of Domesday Survey. In after years the Castle passed to the de la Poles, and the de Burghs, coming eventually by marriage to the Leighton family, whose property it remains to this day. Wattlesborough is reputed to be one of the few estates which have never been bartered for 'filthy lucre,' since the days when the Normans first lorded it over English land. With shadows lengthening before us, we now set our faces towards Shrewsbury. Half an hour's tramp brings us near Rowton Castle, the Rutunium, as some assert, of Roman days. Then we catch a glimpse of Cardeston Church away to the south, and presently pass under the viaduct which carries the defunct Potteries line across the highway. Ford village, whose church boasts a fine old roodscreen, is but a mile distant towards the north, with Shrawardine castle-mound keeping it in countenance on the farther bank of Severn. [Illustration: The Shelton Oak.] On past Dunthall and Onslow Hall, the erstwhile abode of the renowned Mr. Speaker Onslow, we bowl along the dusty highway with homeward-bound Salopians, until, some two miles short of our journey's end, we call a halt to take a look at the Shelton Oak, one of the 'lions' of the locality. Yonder it stands, a storm-rent relic of the immemorial past, holding its own bravely yet ''gainst the tooth of time and razure of oblivion,' though bereft of many a stalwart limb by the gales of a thousand winters. This venerable tree still rears aloft its gaunt, grey, wrinkled branches, lifeless now, save for some ragged foliage that yet clings around the lower part of the trunk. The latter has become hollow inside, where a sort of paved chamber affords standing-room for perhaps a dozen people. As seen in our sketch, a sturdy prop, itself a fair-sized tree, serves to buttress the old giant upon the side towards which he inclines. According to a time-honoured tradition, the Welsh Prince, Owen Glendower, climbed up amidst the branches of the Shelton Oak, in order to watch thence how the fortunes of war progressed during the famous Battle of Shrewsbury: 'The bloody rout that gave To Harry's brow a wreath--to Hotspur's heart a grave.' Soon after leaving the Shelton Oak, the towers and steeples of the County-town put in an appearance ahead; here and there a country house is seen, overlooking the Severn as it winds through the vale, and bricks and mortar begin to usurp the place of trim green fields and hedgerows. That red-brick mansion upon yonder bank is The Mount, birthplace of that very distinguished Salopian, the late Charles Darwin. Anon we descend a hill, and enter the 'antient streete callyd Fraunckarell this many a daye,' a transpontine suburb of Shrewsbury, deriving its name from the fact that, in earlier days, its denizens were exempted from payment of certain tolls levied upon their neighbours over the water. Across the street rises a group of half-timbered houses, whose quaint congeries of beetling gables, chequered beams, lattice-paned casements, and dark, timeworn archways, make an old-world picture. More ancient still, perhaps, is the long, low, two-storied house front a little farther on; its massive old moulded cornices black with age, and curious louvred lights in the upper story--a venerable specimen. [Illustration: A Maiden Garland from Minsterley.] And here at last is the Welsh Bridge, in Leland's time the 'greatest, fayrest, and highest Bridge upon Severne Streame.' At that period, as Leland tells us, the Bridge had 'six great Arches of stone, with a great gate at one end of it to enter by into the Towne, and at the other end towardes Wales a mighty stronge Towre, to prohibit Enimies to enter into the bridge.' Old paintings and woodcuts shew it to have been an extremely picturesque structure, with bold buttresses, and narrow, pointed arches; and a tall, machicolated tower, with frowning gateway, portcullis, and mailed figure of King Edward IV. keeping guard at the western end of the Bridge--a subject worthy the brush of a James Holland, or a Samuel Prout. * * * * * So now, with our arrival at Shrewsbury, we have completed the circuit of our Shropshire wanderings. The subject treated of is so wide, so varied, and of such many-sided interest, that one can do little more than scratch the ground, so to speak, within the compass of a volume such as this. But we venture to hope that the perusal of these pages may lead others to explore this pleasant land for themselves; and it only remains for us to bid farewell to the gentle reader, by whose courtesy we have rambled thus far together amidst the 'Nooks and Corners of Shropshire.' [Illustration: Shrewsbury.] [Illustration: Shropshire.] INDEX A. Abbey Foregate, 5, 16 Abcott, 89 Abdon Burf, 123 Acton Burnell, 28-30 Acton Round, 190 Acton Scott, 49, 50 Alberbury, 231-233 Albrighton, 167 Alceston, 51 Aldenham, 189 All Stretton, 48 Alveley, 197, 198 Ancient Roads, 4, 27, 35, 42, 46, 52, 127, 148 Apley Park, 185 Arleston, 152 Ashford Bowdler, 212 Astley Abbots, 187 Aston Botterel, 203 Aston Eyres, 189 Aston Rogers, 226 Atcham, 149 B. Badger, 181 Barrow, 139 Bausley Hill, 230 Beatchcott, 48 Beckbury, 182 Beckjay Mill, 88 Bedstone, 88 Benthall, 140 Bettws-y-Crwyn, 81-83 Bewdley, 207, 208 Billing's Ring, 46, 63 Binweston, 225 Bishop's Castle, 67-70 Bitterley, 109-111 Bitterley Cross, 110 Boningale, 169 Boraston, 210 Borrow, George, 157 Boscobel, 162-165 Bourton, 133 Braggington, 229 Breidden Hills, 123, 230 Brewood Forest, 162, 165 Bridgnorth, 171-177, 185, 194 Bridgnorth Castle, 176 Brimstree Hill, 157 Bringwood Chase, 92, 111 Broadward Hall, 88 Brockhurst Castle, 49 Brocton, 131 Bromfield, 91, 92 Broncroft Castle, 119 Broome, 91 Broseley, 140 Broughton, 71 Brown Clee Hill, 122, 203 Bucknall, 88 Buildwas Abbey, 142, 143 Burford, 209, 210 Burwarton, 202 Bury Ditches, 63, 72 C. Caer Caradoc, 2, 40, 45, 86, 123 Camlad River, 219, 224 Cantlin Cross, 84 Caractacus, 80, 86, 230 Cardeston, 235 Carding Mill Valley, 44 Cardington, 39 Caurse Castle, 226 Caynham, 212 Chatwall, 36 Cheney Longville, 60 Chirbury, 219, 225 Church Preen, 36 Church Stoke, 71 Church Stretton, 42-44, 48 Claverley, 183 Clee Hills, 2, 108, 111, 122 Cleobury Mortimer, 204-206 Cleobury North, 202 Clun, 72-78, 80, 85 Clun Castle, 73 Clun Forest, 2, 79 Clungunford, 88 Clun River, 3, 79 Coedway, 231 Condover, 23 Corfield, 131 Corfton, 115 Corndon Hill, 217 Corve Dale, 114, 117, 124, 127 Corve River, 114, 119, 133 Cound River, 3, 21 Cox, David, 88, 157 Coxwall Knoll, 87 Craven Arms, 59 Crawl Meadows, 93 Cressage, 145, 146 Crow Leasow, 111, 112 Culmington, 114 D. Danesford, 197 Danford, 183 Davenport House, 179 Delbury, 115, 117 Devil's Causeway, 35 Dickens, Charles, 159 Dinham, 93 Ditton Priors, 202 Dodmore, 108 Donington, 168 Donnington, 153 Dowles, 206 Downton Hall, 112 Dudley, Earl of Leicester, 204 Dunvall, 187 E. Eardington, 195 Easthope, 131, 132 Eaton Constantine, 145 Elsich, 115 Ercal Hill, 150 Ewdness, 186 Eye Farm, 145 Eyton, 146 F. Farley Dingle, 141 Ford, 235 Forest Oak, Quatford, 195 Forest of Brewood, 162, 165 Forest of Clun, 79 Forest of Morf, 194, 196 Forest of Mount Gilbert, 150 Forest of Shirlot, 141 Forest of Siefton, 115 Forest of Wyre, 2, 206, 208 Forest, The Long, 126 Frankwell, 5, 236, 237 Frodesley, 34 G. Gaer Ditches, 86 Gaerstone Rock, 40 Garn Gap, 87 Gatacre Hall, 196 Great Oxenbold, 131 Great Woolaston, 228 Greete, 211 H. Halesowen, 199 Halford Church, 52 Hall-of-the-Forest, 85 Hampton Hall, 225 Hampton Load, 197 Hanwood, 214 Hay Gate, 149 Heath Chapel, 121, 122 Heath House, 88 Heightley Hall, 219 Hermitage at Bridgnorth, 178 Highley, 199 Holgate, 127-129 Holloway Rocks, 87 Honour of Clun, 72 Honour of Tempseter, 81 Hope Bagot, 212 Hope Bowdler, 40 Hope Vale, 216 Hopton Castle, 90 Hopton Heath, 88, 91 Hopton Wafers, 213 Hubbal Grange, 161 Humphreston, 167 Hyssington, 70 I. Ippikin's Rock, 133 Island Farm, 145 J. Jeffreys, Judge, 6, 146 Jerningham Arms, Shiffnal, 155 Jessopp, Dr., 53 Jocosa Burton, 149 K. Kenley, 31 Kinlet Church, 201 Kinlet Hall, 200 Kinlet Park, 200 L. Langley, 114 Langley Chapel, 32 Langley Hall, 33 Larden Hall, 131 Lawley Hill, 46 Lawley's Cross, 141 Lea, 65, 66 Ledwyche Brook, 3, 210 Leebotwood, 46 Lee Family, 34 Leighton, 145 Lilleshall, 153, 154 Linley, 70 Little Stretton, 48, 49 Little Wenlock, 151 Long Forest, 126 Longmynd, 41, 44, 45, 60 Longnor, 35 Loton, 231 Loton Deer Park, 233 Ludford, 104 Ludlow, 94-107 Ludlow Castle, 95-98 Ludlow, St. Lawrence's, 99-102 Ludstone, 182 Lutwyche Hall, 133 Lydbury North, 63 Lydham, 70 Lythwood, 21 M. Madeley Court, 143-145 Mainstone, 71 Major's Leap, 130, 134 Malins Lee Chapel, 155 Marche-Manor Farm, 227 Marrington Dingle, 219, 224 Marrington Hall, 223 Marsh Brook, 49 Marsh Pool, 217 Marton Pool, 225 Mawley Hall, 208 Melverley, 231 Middleton, 112 Milburga, Legend of St., 113 Millichope, 124-127 Minsterley, 215 Mitchell's Fold, 217 Moat Hall, 214 Monk Hopton, 190 Moors, The, Ancient Custom, 195 More, 70 Morf, Forest of, 194, 196 Mortimer's Cross, Battle of, 98 Morville, 188 Much Wenlock, 135-139 Munslow, 117-119 N. Narrow Dale, 65 Nash Chapel, 211 Neen Savage, 204 Neen Sollers, 208 Newcastle, 80, 85 New Invention, 86 Newton, 59 Nordy Bank, 35, 122 Norton, 186 Norton Camp, 58 O. Oak, The Shelton, 236 Oakley Park, 92 Offa's Dyke, 80, 85, 230 Oldbury, 177 Old Parr, 228 Onibury, 91 Onny River, 3, 52, 60, 91 Onslow Hall, 236 Ordericus Vitalis, 149 Owen Glendower, 74, 176, 236 Oxenbold, 131 P. Parr, Old, 228 Penderel, Joan, 164, 166 Pepperhill, 170 Pitchford, 24-26 Pitch Well, 26 Plash, 37 Plowden Hall, 61, 62 Pontesbury, 214 Pool Hall, 198 Portway, The, 46 Potter's Load, 199 Presthope, 134 Q. Quat, 196 Quatford, 194-196 Quatford Oak, 195 Quenny Brook, 49 R. Radnor Forest, 85 Ragleth Hill, 49 Ratlinghope, 48 Rea River, 3, 202, 225 Redlake River, 86, 88 Rhyd-y-Groes, 225 Roman Roads, 127, 148, 204 Romans in Shropshire, 3, 58, 127, 147, 216 Rowton Castle, 235 Royal Oak, Boscobel, 162 Rushbury, 127 S. Severn River, 2, 145, 185, 199, 233 Sharpstones, 40 Shelton Oak, 236 Shelve, 216 Shiffnal, 155, 156 Shipton, 129, 130 Shirlot Forest, 141 Shrawardine, 236 Shrewsbury, 4-20 Shrewsbury Churches, 8, 9, 16, 19 Shrewsbury School, 5 Siefton Forest, 115 Smallman Family, 130, 134 Stage Plays, 222 Stanton Lacy, 112, 113 Stanton Long, 129 Stapleton, 21-23 Stiperstones, 123, 216, 226 Stockton, 186 Stokesay Castle, 53-57 Stokesay Church, 57, 58 Stottesdon, 203 Stow, 87 T. Teme River. 3, 79, 93, 94, 208 Tempseter, Honour of, 81 Tenbury, 209 The Moors, Ancient Custom, 195 Ticknell, 208 Titterstone Clee Hill, 111, 124 Tong, 157-161 Tugford, 119, 120 U. Upper Millichope, 124-127 Uppington, 149 Upton Cressett, 190-193 Uriconium, 2, 146-148 V. Vale Royal, 123 Vernons of Stokesay, 56 Vernons of Tong, 159, 161 Victoria, Princess, 25 Vitalis, Ordericus, 149 Vyrnwy River, 231 W. Walcot Park, 63 Walltown, 204 Watling Street, 27, 42, 52, 58, 148, 149 Wattlesborough Castle, 233, 234 Wattlesborough Heath, 228 Wellington, 152 Welsh Bridge, Shrewsbury, 4, 237 Wenlock Edge, 2, 127, 131 Wenlock, Little, 151 Wenlock, Much, 134-139 Wenlock Priory, 136-138 Westbury, 226 Wheathill, 203 Whettleton, 58 Whitcliff, 94, 97 Whitcot, 80 White Abbey, 233 Whiteladies, 165, 166 Whitton Court, 212 Wilderhope, 130 Willey Hall, 141 Wistanstow, 51 Withington, 149 Womerton, 48 Woolaston, Great, 228 Woolstaston, 46, 47 Worf River, 3, 156, 179 Worfield, 179-181 Worthen, 225 Wrekin, The, 123, 150, 151 Wroxeter, 146, 148 Wyre Forest, 2, 206, 208 THE END. [Illustration] 
46676	----	https://archive.org/details/springinshropshi00gask Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). The oe ligature is represented by the letters oe. In the advertisements at the end of the book, a symbol similar to an upside-down asterism is represented by [symbol] and a small pointing hand by [hand]. SPRING IN A SHROPSHIRE ABBEY ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1778. _From an Engraving after a Drawing by Paul Sandby, R.A._ _Frontispiece._] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SPRING IN A SHROPSHIRE ABBEY by LADY C. MILNES GASKELL Author of "The New Cinderella," and "Old Shropshire Life." With Eighteen Illustrations London Smith, Elder & Co., 15, Waterloo Place 1905 (All rights reserved) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _I dedicate this book to dear Mrs. Boyle (E. V. B.), in affectionate and grateful memory of many charming talks that we had together one sunny winter in the far South._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER I _JANUARY_ PAGE A day in the heart of winter--I lie in bed--My books, my dogs--My daughter Bess--Flowers from Mentone--Cromwell's cabinet--My dog Mouse--The feeding of the birds--The recollection of the beautiful garden at La Mortola--The violets there--The Wenlock chimes--My curtain, its strange devices--Colouring borrowed from the macaws--All flowers not only have different shades but many colours--Mouse runs downstairs--Visitors call--The children get wet--The German governess's indignation--Bess offers to pay--Hals is carried off in Henry's dressing-gown--The next day--My friend Constance comes down and embroiders with me--Billy Buttons the robin--Bess and I visit the gardens--A word about canaries in an aviary--Discussion with Bess on saints--Auguste has cleaned Hals' suit--Burbidge walks with us--A talk about gardening--An old gardener's view of dogs--Constance has a chat with me--We talk on matters relating to the kitchen garden--Vegetables, and how to cook them--Constance's future quilt, designs from Gerard's flowers to be worked on old Shropshire hand-made linen--The servant problem--Bess's request--Nana on dogs--Alone in the chapel hall--Thomas à Kempis's book--The stone altar--The next day--The seed list--My future borders--Bess and I go sledging--Bess tries to understand what real poverty is--How to be happy a hard matter--Bess's offer of toys 1 CHAPTER II _FEBRUARY_ The beginning of spring--The spring of the North--The story of St. Milburgha--Legends of her sanctity--Belief in the efficacy of the saint's water--Wishing Well at Wenlock--First spring flowers in the red-walled garden--I see starlings--The cock chaffinch--Hals' visit--"Sister Helen" in the mouth of babes--Bess's remorse--Constance's quilt from "Gerard's Herbal"--The peace of Wenlock--Bess and her future--The difficulties of education--An interview with Burbidge--How his brother was "overlooked"--I go to Homer--Beautiful view--The story of Banister's Coppice--The arrest of the Duke of Buckingham--The Duke's curse--Its effect upon the Banister family--A visit to an old cottager--A noble life, and unclouded faith--Nanny Morgan the witch--Her life and death--Bess returns--The first snowdrops of the year--A walk home in the gloaming 58 CHAPTER III _MARCH_ The first signs of spring--Birds sing and call--Life everywhere--Throstle and blackbird--Nature everywhere hard at work--The monastic snails--Their use now--Only used for thrushes' breakfasts--Terror of village folks at the thought that they might be put in "ragouts"--Crocuses--Cloth of Gold--Rizzio--Sir W. Scott--White Daphne--Hellebores--Arabis--Jenny Wren--Legends about the bird--The pet robin's nest in the kettle--Stories and folklore about the robin--Lambs at play--The gentle science of angling--Dame Berners' book--The Abbot's walk--Peter "on ounts"--A talk about rooks and their ways--The carrion crow and his eërie cry--I return late for breakfast--Prince Charming--Talk about the pug-pup--Nana hostile--Bess's suggestions of how and where to keep the pup--A talk with a child about letters--Hours in the garden--Pear tree in sheets of snow--Two hedges of roses--A bed of ranunculi--Burbidge takes me aside--"The boys" are sent to garden in the distance, and I hear about his brother and Sal--How the cure was effected--We go to Wenlock station--Arrival of the pug--Mouse jealous--Mouse appeased--Even Nana is kind to Prince Charming--An hour with Montaigne--A word about the sword flower or Gladiolus--The arrival of the swans--Bess believes them to be fairy princes--We feed them--Bess carried off by Nana--Bess will not walk with me--Bess tells me that Fräulein has met with an accident--A long walk alone over the fields with Mouse, after a bunch of white violets--Favourite flowers--Rapture of the birds--The lark a speck in the sky--Wood-sorrel--St. Patrick's plant--How Bess spent the afternoon--Bess's purchase--The next morning--Nana's indignation--Bess's full confession, and how she paid her debt 93 CHAPTER IV _APRIL_ A spring day--The Abbey fool--An old country rhyme--The old custom of All Fools' Day revived--Old Adam full of splendour--A visit to the Abbey pool--Clematises "opened out" to the light--The borders full of spring flowers--Rose pruning--How roses should be pruned differently--Something about bees--The tool-house--Bright colours for the beehives--Scotch bees and their favourite colour--The old Shropshire bee--Bess and I attend the removal of the bees--Masks and bee-veils worn by gardeners--Burbidge whispers the charm--Bee folklore--Bess and I help to paint the bee-houses--The bees are freed--Thady Malone--His message--Mrs. Harley has sent for me--I go off to Homer--The last scene--A death of brilliant hope and happiness--Mouse and I return--The cuckoo--The joy of life, and the beauty of spring--The Sunday before Easter, or Palm Sunday--The old rite of the blessing of the boughs--All the young people in church wear the golden willow--The walk in the churchyard--After luncheon I read extracts from Sir Thomas Botelar's "Church Registers"--Wenlock history in Tudor times--A word about Constance's quilt--The revival of the May dance at Wenlock--A village _fête_--Bess to be May Queen--Marsh marigold the special flower--Bess's delight at the thought of the _fête_--Burbidge gives his consent--Virtuous indignation of old Hester his wife--Easter Sunday--The Sacrament in the old church--In the afternoon we visit Thady, who is down with a bad leg--Bess takes him an Easter Egg--The mead of daffodils--"A bunch of daffs" for luck--How Burbidge had planted them--Our visit to old Timothy Theobalds--His tales of the old ways--Bull-baiting--Rejoicings at Loppington--The Madeley bull-baitings--Courage of the Vicar of Madeley and his eloquence--Stories of old May Day--Stories and old accounts locally--Puritan dislike of the festival--A beautiful spring morning--The summer flowers growing in strength--Beauty of the cloister-garth--Division of the violet roots--The great daffodils and their splendour--The gooseberry and currant cages--Burbidge's dislike to bullfinches--The double primroses, their beauty and charm--Preparations for the May dance--All the old servants are occupied in making the May dance a success--A talk with Thady through the window--A day in the woods--Birds' nests--Luncheon under the greenwood tree--Fairy-stories--We wander home--Quotations about sleep--The delights of a long day in the woods 131 CHAPTER V _MAY_ The May-pole--The dances--Bess's dress--Burbidge's fears for his garden--Old Master Theobalds is taken ill--He revives, thanks to Auguste's broth--A talk of old days--Wakes and Wishing Wells--Grinning through a horse-collar, a rustic accomplishment in the past--A walk to the Wrekin to drink out of the bird-bowls--Susie Langford--Cock-fighting at Wenlock and elsewhere--Old customs and sinful practices--Traditions about winners of the ring--Tom Moody--His pet horse "Old Soul"--Tom's wild drives and leaps--How Tom was once found in a bog--Tom and the Squire--Tom's funeral--View-holloa over the grave--An afternoon in the ruined church--The story of St. Milburgha as told by William of Malmesbury--Words about the monasteries from many sources--The pity of the wreckage and destruction of so much that was beautiful in the Reformation--Thady brings me a "Jack Squealer"--I am taken off bird-nesting--I am shown the nest of a redstart, that of a black ouzel, and one of a Jack Smut (black cap) on a bramble--A beautiful night in the ruins--Narcissi in blossom like a mist of stars at my feet--I think of all who have passed through the cloisters--The end of the Abbey Church, a quarry for road-mending and for the building of pigsties and cottages--My late tulips--A long walk in the early morning--Beauty of the early hours of the day--The country in full splendour--Oak Apple Day--Little boys going to school with the badge of Stuart loyalty in their caps--The chevy--I pluck a bunch of anemones--Poor Bess in disgrace--High words between Célestine and Mrs. Langdale--How pleasant life would be without its worries--Silence in dogs one of their chief charms and merits 189 CHAPTER VI _JUNE_ Peace again in the household--Bedding-out the east garden--"Cherry-pie" geraniums--Scarlet verbenas--Clematis up the pillars, a future glory--Planting the tubs--Sweet-smelling plants for the evening--The hedgehog--Mouse and it are reconciled--A talk about hedgehogs--Auguste and "les escargots"--What Auguste will do with them--The growing demand in London--Bess and I enjoy the summer--The forsaken thrush's nest--Old Timothy and the yellow water wagtail's nest--A youthful memory--Old customs in Shropshire--Apple howlers--The old belief in the devil--Modern thought has blotted him out--The old Pagan Belief and how apple howling was but the last act of a Pagan rite--Domestic service and old Timothy's views--Servants old and new--How man and maid were engaged in the old days--A talk about stocks, and pillory--The old punishments at Wenlock--Judy Cookson in the scold's bridle--The sale of a wife--With a happy ending--A turn in the bee garden--White Martagon lilies, English peonies, briars, columbines, lupins, Oriental poppies, all about to open--A letter from Mrs. Stanley--Bess's views on London--A walk in the garden after a night's rain--The beauty of the rose--Old and new all are always welcome--A bush of rosemary--Old saws and customs--Evelyn's enjoyment of sweet plants--The old Hampshire garden--The burning bush--Laon Cathedral--Pinks, their delicious scent--Many sorts, but all delightful--The herb garden--A word about herbs--The single peony--Old beliefs about it--A drink of "peonina tea" from the Witch--Mustard as a manure for tulips--Woodruff, its sweet scent--Wormwood--Hester Burbidge a culler of herbs--Burbidge's despotic rule--Camomile, clove-basil, and mallow, all grown for medicinal purposes--Bess's views "on cherubims"--Bess's dream--A talk about a butterfly collection--Mrs. Eccles and her request--The sprig of bay--The old Roman belief--We meet Hals--Delight of the children--Bess wishes to buy a brother--A week of holidays--Charles Kingsley's Water-Babies--Long summer days--Walks and rides in the twilight--The wonderful glory of June--Thady Malone--The field on the Edge--The leveret--Mouse retrieves it, but does it no harm--Heaven--Bess declares there must be dogs there--Thady's tale 232 CHAPTER VII _JULY_ A perfect summer's day--Wild birds strong on the wing--They can mock at the terriers--My roses in full glory--My collection of Moss roses--Chinese larkspurs or delphiniums--Larkspurs of many strange colours--Chinese peonies--The glory of the tree peony--A hedge of Austrian briar--The hybrid teas--The charm and excellence--The gorgeous hybrid perpetuals--Irises and their beauty--Crimson ramblers and Penzance briars--The bower garden--The charm of annuals--The border beneath the old greengages--Marigolds--Stocks--Love-in-the-Mist--Sweet sultan and cockscomb--Sweet peas in lines for picking--Bess's treasure--Great excitement--A great twittering in the great yew hedge--A cat the suspected cause--Greenfinches hover round us--I see a nest--We fetch the garden steps--A moment of glory--Alas! I fall, and heavily, in securing the prize--The treasure proves to be a young cuckoo--Terror of the children--Help at last arrives--I cannot spend the week, as I had intended, seeing friends framed in their gardens--The children flit off to Constance, and I am left alone--An afternoon of happy daydreams, past and present--The old Hampshire garden--The great gardens of England--Shipton and its charms--James I. of Scotland and his Quhair--The garden at Westminster where Chaucer wrote--Lord Bacon's stately conception of what a garden should be--The charms of wild gardening--A talk about Bacon--His greatness and his baseness--Nonsuch--John Evelyn and his love of a garden--His ride along the Mediterranean coast--Elizabeth of York's bower--Sir Thomas More's garden--The gardens at Hampton Court--Moor Park and its beauties in Hereford--Sheen--Sir William Temple's Moor Park in Surrey--His sundial--The gardens of the ancients--The garden where Epicurus walked--Where Solomon wrote--The Hesperides--The garden of Alcinous--Chaucer's earthly paradise--Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia--The wreaths of other centuries--The extent of Theobalds--Kenilworth and its garden--The old delight of sweet scents--Bacon's suggestion to surround the house with pleasant perfumes--Markham's nosegay garden--Lawson's delight in a garden--A word about the gardeners of the Middle Ages--Many of the gardens of the past are gone--The old home of the Newports--The old gazebo at Eyton--The garden in which the Masque of Flowers was given in 1613--The children return to me--How they spent the afternoon--Shropshire games--Kiss-in-the-ring--Dog Bingo--Bell-horses--Green Gravel--Wallflowers--Nuts in May--Three Dukes a-riding--Ring of roses--A-walking up the green grass--I lie awake--A volume of Milton--The charm of "Comus"--The beauty of the masque--The stately ruins of Ludlow Castle--Princes who have visited it in its days of splendour--The little murdered Princes--Prince Arthur--The Lady Alice--John Milton--His learning--Musician and poet, and a fine swordsman--Auguste's gift--Burbidge's roses--A word about roses--Stories about ladies who have disliked them in the past--Hals' visit draws to a close--Bess broken-hearted--We leave for the seaside 280 INDEX 323 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS TO FACE PAGE WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1778 _Frontispiece_ _From an engraving after a drawing by Paul Sandby, R.A._ THE ABBEY FARMERY } 18 } THE CLOISTER GARDEN } _From photographs by kind permission 32 } of Messrs. F. Frith & Co., Ltd._ THE RED WALLED GARDEN } 62 WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1731 94 _From Buck's view._ "MOUSE" AT HOME } } _From photographs by Miss Gaskell_ 114 "MOUSE" ON A VISIT } THE CHAPEL HALL 132 _From a photograph by Miss K. Wintour._ SIR THOMAS BOTELAR'S HOUSE 152 _From a photograph by Mr. W. Golling._ THE ABBEY RUINS 174 _From a photograph by kind permission of Messrs. F. Frith & Co., Ltd._ NEST OF GREENFINCH { } { _From photographs by kind permission of_ } 186 NEST OF RING-OUZEL { _Mrs. New._ } RUINS OF WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1778 202 _From an engraving after a drawing by Paul Sandby, R.A._ THE LAVABo 224 _From a photograph by Mr. W. Golling._ THE OLD GUILDHALL 246 _From a photograph by kind permission of Messrs. F. Frith & Co., Ltd._ THE ORATORY 264 _From a photograph by Mr. W. Golling._ CHAPTER HOUSE AT WENLOCK { _From photographs by kind permission } 292 { of Messrs. F. Frith & Co., } OLD WENLOCK TOWN { Ltd._ } 304 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SPRING IN A SHROPSHIRE ABBEY CHAPTER I _JANUARY_ Here, winter holds his unrejoicing court, And through his airy hall the loud misrule Of driving tempest is for ever heard. THOMSON'S _Seasons_. It was a dark, dismal day. Thick black clouds hung across the sky. There was a faint chirping of sparrows amongst the lifeless creepers, and that was all. A roaring fire burnt in my grate; before which my dog, a great tawny creature of the boarhound breed, lay sleeping at her ease. It was cold, very cold; in all nature there seemed no life. A white, thick covering rested upon the ground. Snow had fallen heavily the last week of the old year, and much, I feared, must fall again, judging by the yellowish grey, leaden pall I saw overhead. I lay in bed; the doctor had just been, and had prescribed for me a day of rest, and a day in the house, on account of a chill caught the week before. How immortal we should feel, I reflected, if it were not for influenza, colds, and rheumatism, and such like small deer amongst diseases. What a glory life would be in their absence! Alas! we poor mortals, we spend much time in trivial illness; not maladies of the heroic and grand mediæval school, such as the Black Death or the sweating sickness, but in weary, long episodes of chills, and colds, which make us feel ill, and low, and produce irritability and heart-searchings. It is sad also to think how many days slip by for all of us in the English winter--unloved and dreary days of twilight, and of little pleasure unless taken rightly and softened by letters to, and from old friends, and by hours spent with favourite books. Yet each cloud has its silver lining, if we have but eyes to see; and as an old cottager once said to me, "Yer might do worse than be in bed when Mother Shipton plucks her geese." Yes, I reflected, I might be worse, and I looked round my Norman-windowed chamber--for to-day should be spent with my books. Life to a woman, as has been justly said, is a series of interrupted sentences; and in these days of hurry and scurry, life seems almost more interrupted than it did to our mothers twenty years ago, and leisure, of all delightful things, is the most delightful, the rarest and the most difficult to obtain. Leisure with thought is a necessity for mental development, and yet in these days of motor-driving, flying-machines, and radium we only think of getting on--getting on--but where? I lay back comfortably and looked with pleasure at the pile of books by my bedside. They were all dear, tried, and trusted friends. There was Malory. How I love his pictures of forest and castle, and his battles, while his last scenes of Launcelot and Arthur, are almost the greatest, and grandest that I know. [Sidenote: FLOWERS FROM THE SOUTH] How pathetic they are! and yet how simple, instinct with living poetry, and noble passion! Then I saw my much-worn Shakespeare, and I looked forward to a dip in _The Tempest_, and later on meant to refresh my mind with the story of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, who was betrayed near here by his treacherous steward, Banister. I looked round and saw other friends close to hand. Amiel's beautiful story of a noble life, teeming with highest thought; "Gerontius' Dream," by England's great poet and ecclesiastic; Tennyson's "Idylls of the King;" and a few of Montaigne's admirable essays, "that charming old man" of whom, Madame de Sévigné wrote, "it was impossible to weary, for, old friend as he was, he seemed always so fresh and new." I shall never be dull, I said with a laugh, and I shall live in fairy-land with my dogs and my poets. "You might do worse than lie in bed, as my old friend said," I repeated to myself; and I realized that even for days spent in bed there were compensations. Just as I was preparing to stretch out my arm and take a volume of Amiel, there came a loud knock at the door, and my daughter, a child of seven, ran in with the news-- "Oh, mama, here is a box of flowers for you, and they have come all the way from France; I know it, for Célestine said so." "Flowers," I cried; "how delightful!" On hearing me speak, the big dog jumped up with a friendly growl, and insisted upon standing up with her forepaws on the bed and inspecting the flowers. "See!" cried Bess, "carnations and roses. Now, why can't we always have carnations and roses? Miss Weldon says there is a time for everything; but I'm sure there's never half time enough for flowers and play." "Perhaps not, Bess," I said. "But the snow and the frost make us long for and love the flowers all the more, and if you did no lessons you wouldn't enjoy your playtime half as much as you do now." Bess laughed contemptuously; she is a somewhat modern child, and has no time to look "ahead," as she calls it, nor any belief in the glories of adversity. Gravely she seated herself on my bed and enunciated the following sentences-- "Mama," she said in her clear bird-like voice, "I worry a little about something every day." "No, not really, dear," I answered, rather horrified at this unusual display of gravity on her part. And I began to fear that there had been too many lessons of late, and had a terrible vision of over-pressure and undue precocity, as I took the little thing's hand and said, "Tell me, what is it?" Whereupon Bess replied solemnly, her eyes looking into space-- "I worry about something every day, and that is, wasting so much good time on lessons, when I might be quite happy, and do nothing but play." "But, my dear," I began, "if it was all play, how would you ever learn to read or to write? And when you grew up and got quite big, you wouldn't like to be quite ignorant and to know nothing, would you?" "I should know as much as I ought," replied Bess, sturdily. "No, dear, you wouldn't," I said. "You couldn't talk as a lady, you wouldn't know any history or geography, or know how to speak French or German, or be able to read nice books, or do any of the things which are going to be very nice, but which perhaps are not very nice just at the beginning." "I should know what Burbidge knows," replied Bess, stoutly; "besides which," she added, "dogs don't know French, and no dates, and yet papa doesn't call them ignorant." And then my little maid turned with a scarlet face, and feeling perhaps a little worsted in the argument said, "Mama, let me scurry off for your maid." [Sidenote: BESS ON EDUCATION] A moment later Bess returned in company with Célestine, my French maid. Célestine entered like a whirlwind; she was sure that "Madame se fatigue." "With one cold in de head un repos absolu is necessary," she declared. However, when she saw the flowers, and I explained that they came from "la belle France," she affirmed "que tout allait bien," and was mollified. She brought me water and some vases, and Bess and I proceeded to sort out the beautiful Neapolitan violets and snip the ends of the rose and carnation stalks. "I like cutting," cried Bess, eagerly. "It's doing something, Burbidge says," and just now the gardener is my little daughter's hero, and Burbidge's reasons for everything in her eyes rule the universe. I like to think of the poor stalks in water, I said; they are so thirsty, like poor tired men who have travelled over sandy deserts. Then I asked Célestine to hand me some water, and begged her to let it be tepid and to add a few drops of eau-de-Cologne in each glass. "Madame will spoil the rose and the carnation, his own smell is all that is needed," answered my waiting-woman severely. But I begged her to comply with my request, for I wanted my dear friend's gifts to live in water as long as possible, and to revive quickly. "Ah, they are charming," I said, as Célestine and Bess triumphantly arranged the vases around my bed. They placed a bowl of roses on Oliver Cromwell's cabinet, at least it was said to be his, a cabinet of rose and walnut wood which has innumerable secret drawers. What papers, I wondered, have lain there? Perhaps State papers from Master Secretary Milton, poet and minister; ambitious, aspiring letters from his wife; tear-stained appeals from Royalists; pretty notes from his best beloved daughter, gentle Mistress Claypole. Who knows? And that day it held my little pieces of jewelry, my fans, odds and ends of ribbon, shoes, bows, and collars, and on it, filling the air with sweet perfume, rested a bowl of January roses. How fragrant they were, carrying with them all the breath of summer. Roses are the sweetest of all flowers--the triumph of summer suns, and summer rains, at least so they seemed to me. Those that I gazed on were a selection of exquisite teas: pink, fawn, copper, and creamy white, all the various tints of dying suns were represented, as they stood in an old Caughley bowl; and then I looked at the carnations and buried my nose in their sweet aromatic scent--some of these were of absolute pearl grey, and make me think of the doves of St. Mark when they circle or alight in the Piazza of the City of Lagoons. "That's a beauty," said Bess, authoritatively. "Why it's the colour of Smokey." Smokey is the nursery Persian cat. "I did not know, mama," continued Bess, "that flowers was grey--I thought they was always red, white, or blue. Burbidge would call that a dust-bin blow." "Flowers are all colours--at least gardeners make them so," I answered. "Ah, madame forgets," interrupted Célestine, who with Gallic vivacity always likes her share of the conversation, "there are no blue roses." "You are right," I answered, "there are no blue roses; they are only the flowers of our imaginations, but they never fade," and I laughed. I spoke in French, and this irritated Bess. Bess has a Shropshire nurse, Winifrede Milner, who has unfortunately an invincible objection to Célestine, in fact to foreigners of all kinds. It is a religion of hatred and objections, and creates continual disagreements in the household. Bess, owing to the nursery feud, sternly sets her face against everything foreign, and, above all, against speaking another tongue. [Sidenote: BESS DISLIKES FOREIGNERS] "I won't jabber like Célestine when she talks," she cried, "it sounds like shaking up a money-box, only no money comes out. Burbidge says 'foreigners are like sparrows when a cat's about. They talk when they've nothing to say, and go on when they've done.'" "Oh, Bess, you must not be rude. If you were in France, you wouldn't like to hear rude things said about England, or English people." "I shouldn't mind," replied Bess, sturdily, "because they wouldn't be true. When things aren't true, Miss Weldon says, you should rise above such considerations, and take no notice." To divert the child I asked her abruptly what she was going to do. "You must go out, Bess," I said, "if the sun shines, and take poor Mouse." Mouse looked at me reproachfully as I spoke--she understood my reference to outdoor exercise, but hated the idea of wetting her feet, besides which she considered going out with any one except me beneath her dignity. Of all boarhounds that I have ever known, mine is the most self-indulgent and the most self-satisfied of my acquaintance. Besides which, secretly I felt convinced she was hopeful of sharing my meals, and lying later on the bed when no one was looking. "Old Mouse is no good," retorted Bess, disdainfully. "She only follows grown-up people. If I lived in heaven," she added dreamily, "I should have a real, live dog, that would walk with me, although I was only a child cherubim." "Well," I pursued, "but what are you going to do?" "Me?" inquired Bess, with small attention to grammatical niceties. "When I've done my lessons I shall go out with Burbidge. We are going to put up cocoa-nuts for tom-tits, and hang up some pieces of fat bacon for the starlings, besides which we are going to sweep round the sundial for the rooks. Papa said they were to be fed, and we are going to do it--Burbidge and me." "What will Miss Weldon do?" I asked. "Oh, she will read," with great contempt said Bess; "she reads, and never sees anything. Burbidge says that there are many who would know more if they read less." "See after my canaries," I cried, as Bess flew off to finish her lessons, buoyed up with the hope later of going out with our old gardener. Outside I heard him, our faithful old retainer of some seventy years, tramping heavily on the red Ercal gravel. He was about to sweep a place by the sundial on which to feed my birds. [Sidenote: FEEDING THE BIRDS] Birds of all kinds come to this outside dining-hall--tom-tits, the beautiful little blue and green variety, perky and no larger than a wren; wrens with deep guttural bell-like notes and brown tails up-tilted; robins with flaming breasts; ill-bred, iridescent, chattering starlings; a few salmon-breasted chaffinches, the tamest of all wild birds; spotted thrushes, and raven-hued blackbirds; besides an army of grey sparrows, very tame, very cheeky, and very quarrelsome. Added to all these were the rooks, and a flight of grey-pated hungry jackdaws who uttered short sharp cries when they saw the corn and scraps of bread, but who dared not approach as near as the other and smaller birds. Across my latticed windows dark shadows passed and repassed; they were caused by the jackdaws and the rooks who swept down at intervals, and carried off a big piece of bread when nobody was at hand. The old gardener fed this strange feathered crew, and then stood aside to see the fun. How the starlings jabbered and screamed, and what an ill-bred, ill-conditioned lot they were, as they all talked at once, screamed, scolded--vulgar, loud, noisy, common, and essentially of low origin. A few of the Watch Tower pigeons swept down with a flutter of musical wings, and were about to fall upon the food, when crowds of jackdaws left the old stone tiled roof and dashed in for their share, uttering as they went their weird ghostly cry. For a moment the noise was chaotic--the pigeons cooed and strutted, the starlings screamed, and the jackdaws pressed greedily forward to seize and carry off all they could get. Suddenly there was a noise, hungry, passionate, furious, like an angry motor pressing forward in a race and bent on dealing death on all sides; and I saw the peacock dash forward, his tail up, and his neck outstretched. He fell upon the food and would allow none to partake of any, till he had had his fill. Behind him followed his three wives, but at a respectful distance; he was not gallant like a barndoor cock, in fact he was much too fine a fellow to think of any one but himself. His tail feathers were not yet quite perfect, and they seemed swathed in places in silver paper, but his neck was glorious, of a brilliant blue with shimmers of golden reflections, and of a colour that has no equal. He had a viperish head, and was gloriously beautiful, and morally, a collection of all the vices--greedy, spiteful, and furiously ill-tempered. He slew, last spring, a whole clutch of young "widdies," as the country people call ducklings, and killed, in a fit of anger, two of his own chicks. Burbidge dislikes him on account of the damage he does in a garden, but respects him for his beauty. "He is like an army of 'blows'" (blossoms), he says, "and creates more damage than a tempest at harvest time, does old Adam." Mouse, whilst I was watching the scene outside through the long lancet window, seized upon her opportunity and leapt up upon the bed. "I wish you wouldn't," I said feebly. "I am sure the fire was nice enough, even for a dog." But Mouse thought differently; she turned round in a distracting, disagreeable way, some three or four times, as wild dogs are said to do in the prairies, on the bed--my bed, and then flumped down heavily across my feet. I wriggled uneasily, but Mouse had gained her point and had no feelings for my discomfort; she rested upon the bed, which to every well-constituted dog-mind is a great achievement, almost an acknowledgment of sovereignty. There she would lie, I knew, until some divertisement could be suggested that would appeal to her palate, or some suggestion of danger outside. For Mouse is greedy and lazy, but faithful as most dogs are, and few human beings. I dared not slap or speak rudely, for great Danes are gifted with acute sensibilities; and if I were to be so ill-judged as to express displeasure by an unpleasant gesture, she would remain broken-hearted and aggrieved for the rest of the day. Alas! for the liberty of the subject. I groaned for folks who indulge their dogs in caprice and greed, but I had not the courage to fight for myself and so had to suffer. There is really much to be urged in favour of the fortunate people who are dog-less. [Sidenote: A GARDEN OF EDEN] I turned my head and looked with delight at my flowers. While I gazed, my mind flew back, and away to the land of sunshine from whence they came. I thought of sunny Mentone with its blue sky, and glittering groves of oranges and lemons that hung in the sunlight like balls of fire and light; of Cap St. Martin stretching seaward, and, above all, of the beautiful garden of La Mortola that I visited several times when I stayed at the Bellevue. How wonderfully exquisite that garden was, running down to the turquoise sea, a perfect fairy-land of delight--the old villa, once a mediæval palace, in the centre, with its well, with its marble floors, its cypress groves and fir pines, its sheets of brilliant anemones, its agaves and aloes, and its cacti. It made me think of the garden of Eden before the Fall, that garden of La Mortola--it seemed hardly a real place, so beautiful was it; and its thirty maidens that weeded the paths and watered the blossoms, seemed scarcely more real. How well I remembered walking round the garden, with the kind and courteous owner of this land of enchantment; how he showed us all his rare and strange plants, plants from all parts of the world, old and new. There were many varieties of oranges and lemons, and the air, as we walked in the golden light of a March day, was laden with the entrancing sweetness of the Pittosporum. But above all, what interested me most in the Enchanted Land was the old Roman road, which runs just above the kitchen garden, and below the flower garden. Here, it is recorded on a tablet let into the wall, is the place where Napoleon and his victorious army passed into Italy. It is a narrow little path on which the whole of the French army passed, with scarcely room for two men to ride abreast. Below lay the sea like a lake, of that wonderful delicate blue that is only to be seen in Mediterranean waters, tideless and brilliant, and beyond were the purple coasts of Corsica. I remembered at the end of my first visit my kind host asking me amongst his rare and beautiful flowers, what I had most admired? I replied, the sheets of violets, but violets as it is impossible to imagine in chilly England, sheets of purple, unhidden by leaves, and gorgeous in their amethystine glory--violets growing in great beds many yards long in the middle of the garden, like mantles of purple. They were a glorious vision, a sight of beauty that I shall never forget, a revelation of colour. As I looked at the bunches that my friend had sent, I thought of those exquisite perfumed _parterres_, of the song of the blackcaps amongst the olives, of the golden sunlight, and of the radiant beauty of sea and sky. Yes, the garden of La Mortola was wonderfully, marvellously beautiful, and it even then seemed to me doubly beautiful, seeing it as I did in my mental vision, across sheets of snow and in the grim atmosphere of an English winter. What a true joy beautiful memories are! the real jewels of the soul that no robber can steal, and that no moth or rust can corrupt, the great education of sense and heart. Then I took my books and enjoyed a browse. What a good thing leisure is, leisure to read and think. Nobody interrupted me, only the chimes of the old parish church told me the hour from time to time. With measured cadence, drowsily and melodiously they sounded across the snow-bound earth. "Time to dream, time to dream," they seemed to say. Later on came my luncheon, cutlets with onion chips and jelly. Mouse got the bones. She was polite enough to leap off the bed and to crack them on the floor--and I was grateful for small mercies. A minute afterwards, and I rang my hand-bell, and Célestine scurried down. "Madame a froid, madame est malade," and in her impetuous Gallic way, waited for no reply. However, when I could make myself heard, I told her that I meant to get up, as my friend was coming down from the Red House to embroider with me. [Sidenote: THE GREAT CURTAINS] When my toilet was completed, I begged Célestine to bring my big basket from the chapel hall below, and the curtain that I was engaged in embroidering for my oratory. The background is of yellow linen and is thickly covered with fourteenth and fifteenth century birds, beasts, and flowers, and in the centre of each there is an angel. Each curtain is three yards four inches, by two yards four inches. The birds, beasts, and flowers are all finely shaded and are worked in crewels, tapestry wools divided, in darning and fine Berlin wools, and all these various sorts seem to harmonize and mingle wonderfully well together. The picture, for it really is a picture, was drawn out for me by a very skilful draughtsman. The birds, beasts, and angels have been taken from old Italian work, from mediæval stained-glass windows, and from old missals, and then drawn out to scale. There are Tudor roses, Italian carnations, sprays of shadowy love-in-the-mist, dusky wallflowers, and delightful half-heraldic birds and beasts, running up and hanging down the stems. It is a great work. Constance, who is good enough to admire it, says that she is sure that the Water-poet would have said, if he could have seen it-- "Flowers, plants and fishes, beasts, birds, flies and bees, Hills, dales, plains, pastures, skies, seas, rivers, trees: There's nothing near at hand or farthest sought But with the needle may be shaped and wrought. Moreover, posies rare and anagrams, Art's life included, within Nature's bounds." There are four curtains to do, and alas, I have only one pair of hands! I keep all carefully covered up with old damask napkins as I go along, so that neither ground nor work can get rubbed or soiled, and embroider, myself, in what my old housekeeper calls pie-crust sleeves, to save the slightest friction from my dress on the yellow linen. As to the cherubim's and seraphim's wings, they have been my great and constant delight. I dreamt of a wild glory of colour which I hardly dared to realize, but of which I found wonderful examples one sunny day in the macaw grove at the Zoo. I went up and down and inspected the marvellous birds for an hour, drinking in with rapture the extraordinary richness of their plumage. How marvellous they were! Red, blue, mauve, green, scarlet, rose, and yellow, all pure unsullied colours, and like flashes of light. They seemed to me like a triumphant tune set to pealing chords. There seemed in those glorious creatures to be no drawbacks, no shadows, no trivialities of daily life. In their resplendent feathers they appeared to gather light and to reproduce the majesty of the sun itself. [Sidenote: THE JOY OF COLOUR] I went home, my eyes almost dazzled with their radiancy, and a week after attempted to work into my curtain something of what I had seen--a feeble reflection, I fear, but still a reflection. In my angels and cherubim I have allowed no greys or browns, no twilight shades. Everywhere I have introduced a pure warm note of intense joyous colour, and if I have not always succeeded, at least the wings of my celestial beings have been a great source of delight to imagine, and to execute. In my colouring it has been always morning. Bess was charmed to run and fetch me the different wools needed--"Summer suns," she called them. I have often noticed that to a young child, pure brilliant colours are an intense joy and a source of gaiety. It is only as the shades of the prison-house draw near, and press upon us, that the lack of appreciation creeps in for what to children and to primitive man is a great and constant glory. That day I was going to embroider some anemones, such as I remembered in the old market-place of Mentone, and a sprig of stocks, such as I recollected once having seen on a drive to Brigg. The eye of the mind can be a great pleasure if properly cultivated. It may not be actually correct, but it can give the soul and the life of things remembered, even through the mist of years. And now one word, dear sister-devotees of the needle, about embroidery. Do not imagine that shading in five or six shades of the same colour, which is the way that nine people out of ten work, is the true and natural one. This only produces a sad and wooden flower, without life or gladness, and conceived and worked amongst the shades of twilight. Take any flower and place it in the sunlight, and you will see in any purple flower, for instance, that there are not only different shades, but different colours--red, mauve, blue, lavender, and violet. I realized as I gazed at my anemone, that it must be embroidered in greyish lavenders, with here and there pure notes of violet with heather tints, in red purples, in greyish whites, and with a vivid apple-green centre. All these were strikingly different colours, but were necessary in the shading to make my blossom look as if it had grown amidst sunlight and shower. I stood my bunch of real flowers in water in as strong a light as possible; as to the sunshine, alas! of that there was but a scanty supply, and I had to imagine that mostly, as also the scent of the orange groves and the thrilling song of the blackcaps overhead, for in our northern world, let it be written with sorrow, many and long are the dull leaden months between each summer. Still light did something, and imagination did the rest. I imagined myself back under the brilliant sky of southern France, and I thought I saw the bowls of brilliant flowers as I had known them, whilst I threaded my needle. Suddenly Mouse slipped off the bed, and whined at the door. I understood her anxiety to run out, for I, too, had heard a tramp on the gravel path outside, and had seen the keeper Gregson go off towards the back-door laden with a string of rabbits, a plover or two, and a brace of partridges neatly fastened to a stick, as is the way of keepers. [Sidenote: MOUSE, POUR LE SPORT] The black retriever that was following Gregson is a dear friend of Mouse's. Once my dog went out shooting. In the cells of her brain that day has always remained a red letter day; I believe on this celebrated occasion she ran in, and did all that a sporting dog should not do, knocked down a beater who was endeavouring to lead "the great beast," fought a yellow retriever, but did find and successfully bring back, puffing and panting like a grampus, a wounded bird that had escaped keepers, beaters, and trained dogs. "Her's like a great colt in the plough, but her has a beautiful nose," Gregson always declared, "and if so be her had been brought up proper, would have been an ornament to her profession." The memory of this "jour de gloire," as Célestine called it, had never left my canine friend, and my gigantic watch-dog had ever since retained a devouring passion for field sports. To humour my dog, I opened the door, and Mouse disappeared, and swept by like a hurricane, ponderous and terrible, down the newel staircase heaving and whining with impatience. A second later and I saw her below greeting Gregson effusively. Our old keeper was pleased at her welcome. "Good Mouse," I heard him call. And then I heard him cry out to our French cook, Auguste, "Mouse, she seems like a bobby off duty when she finds me. There's nature in the dog for all her lives in the drawing-room, lies on sofas and feeds on kickshaws." Auguste agreed, and then seeing the game, gesticulated and exclaimed, "Quelle chasse! C'est splendide, et vous----" A moment later I heard the door close, and Gregson disappeared into the old Abbey kitchen to smoke, doubtless, the pipe of peace, after partaking liberally of a certain game pie, that we had the day before at luncheon. The voices grew faint, and I returned to my work. I threaded several needles with different colours, pricked them handy for use in a pincushion, and then began to copy my flowers on the table as deftly as I could, and awaited my friend. It was very peaceful outside. All looked grey and cold, the snow lay white and pure, and the only note of colour was the glistening ivy. There was no sound, the starlings had vanished. Far away I saw a flock of rooks, dim specks against the leaden sky. I sat and embroidered in silence, when suddenly the calm of the winter afternoon was broken by the gay laughter of a child, and I discerned my Bess, chattering below with our old gardener Burbidge. In one hand he carried a pole, whilst Bess had tightly clutched hold of the other. I opened my lattice window and inquired what they were about to do? The reply came back from Burbidge that he and the gardeners were going to shake off the snow from the great yew hedge by the bowling-green. "The snow be like lead to my balls," said the old man, "and as to the peacock's tail, I fear it will damage the poor bird unless it be knocked off dang-swang"--which is Burbidge's Shropshire way of saying "at once." Burbidge always speaks of the yew peacock as the real bird, and of Adam, our blue-necked pet, as "him that plagues us in the garden." Bess laughed with joy at the thought of so congenial an occupation. "I shall help too," she cried, as she waved her hand to me, "for Ben" (the odd man) "has cut me a stick, and I am going to knock as well as anybody. I have done all my lessons, mamsie," she bawled. "I know enough for one day, and now I'm going to work, really work." I kissed my hand, and Bess passed off the scene accompanied by a train of gardeners. [Sidenote: A COUNTRY BRINGING UP] Just before Bess was quite out of sight Célestine poked out her head from a top window above, and I heard her raise her voice to scold angrily but ineffectually. Célestine has an unfortunate habit of giving unasked, her advice freely. Like a cat, she has a horror of getting wet, and has a rooted belief that _une petite fille bien élevée_ should remain in, in bad weather, nurse her doll by the fire, or learn to make her dolly's clothes. I did not catch all that my maid said, but some of her stray words of indignation reached me. I heard that something was not _gentil_, and something else was _infâme_, and Bess in particular "une petite fille impolie." In answer to this I caught a defiant laugh from Bess, and then Célestine banged down her window above. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ THE ABBEY FARMERY.] I sat down and worked in silence. Bess is an only child--and will come to no harm under old Burbidge's care, I said to myself. In fact, she will learn under his tutorship many of the delightful things that make life worth having afterwards. She will so acquire the knowledge of the things that are seen, and not learnt by book; she will get to know the different notes of the birds, and to distinguish their eggs. She will hear from him the names of the hedge-row flowers, and learn where to find the rare ones, and know by country names all the sweet natural things that enable us to appreciate a long walk in the country, or a turn round our gardens. She will thus unconsciously learn to love simple wild things, and homely pleasures, and these will be for her stepping-stones to the higher education in the future. Why is the society of old servants so delightful to children? I asked myself this question, as I asked it also of my little maid, a few weeks before, when she gave me her definition of a happy day--a day to be spent, if I remember rightly, in the company of Burbidge with Ben the odd boy, and in driving with Crawley, the Yorkshire coachman. "I should like to be swung by Ben from the old walnut tree, to garden, and catch tadpoles with Burbidge, and to drive the old grey mare all by myself with Crawley." And Bess added: "Then, mamsie, I should be quite happy; and mummie, do let it come true on my first holiday, or on my next birthday." "If there could be no 'don'ts,'" another time Bess told me, "I should be always good; and if I had no nurse, or governess, I should never be naughty." I try to implant in Bess's mind that nurse and governess are her duties in life. She agrees but sadly, and like most modern people, poor child, wishes to get rid of life's duties as quickly as possible. "I never mean to be naughty," Bess asserts, "but naughtiness comes to me like spoiling a frock, when I least expect it." And she once added, "I know, mummy, if people didn't think me naughty I never should be." I pondered over these nursery problems as the work grew under my hands. How delicate and exquisite were all the shades of grey and lavender in the real flowers. I inspected my threaded needles, but I could not find amongst my crewels the necessary tints. I took a thread of tapestry wool, divided it carefully, and then turning to a box of Scotch fingering on cards, found exactly what was needed, a warm shade of heather. Embroidery is so much to me. It is part of my life, and flowers and birds when done recall thoughts and joys and pains, as scents are said to bring back the past to most people. A story is told of a French lady who, when they told her that her daughter-in-law did not like needlework, replied, "She is very young--she has never known real sorrow." [Sidenote: A PLAYMATE FOR BESS] All of a sudden I dropped my work and started up, for all the dogs had begun to bark in chorus. I ran to the window. I heard the crunch of the gravel, and a minute later I saw a carriage drawn by a pair of greys stop before our old front door. Out of the brougham there emerged the little figure of Harry, Colonel Stanley's only little boy and Bess's playmate. He was accompanied by his German governess, a fat, phlegmatic personage, Fräulein Schliemann by name. As she got out, I heard her say, "I have one letter to leave, most important," and she stood waiting on the doorstep for Fremantle to show her into the house. In the selfsame moment, Harry, hearing voices in the rose garden, without a word, and nimble as a rabbit, darted through the wrought-iron gates and waved his hand to Bess. In a second Bess appeared, a shower of snow upon her cap and amongst her locks, but redolent of health, and full of gaiety. "Is that you, Hals?" she cried, and the children dashed off to the end of the garden together. Fräulein in the mean time discoursed with Fremantle and gave up her letter. All this I noticed from my room. Through my window I heard peals of laughter, and I saw Hals on the back of an under-gardener, pursued by Bess, who was engaged in throwing handfuls of snow at him. Happily this spectacle was not witnessed by Fräulein Schliemann, for water and snow are always repellent to her, and incomprehensible as sources of pleasure or amusement. She heaved a big sigh and then, preceded by the butler, went into the old chapel hall and plumped her fat self down on an old oak chair. A quick knock at my door, and Fremantle brought me the letter. The note contained an invitation for Bess to go over and spend the following Saturday afternoon at Hawkmoor, Colonel Stanley's country house, some six miles away. It would be little Harry's birthday, I was told, and the diversions and amusements in his honour, were to be great, and varied. Punch and Judy in the front hall, a conjuror, a magic-lantern, and later on a birthday cake, with lighted candles, as many as the years that little Hals (as Bess calls him) would have attained to. "Do," wrote my cousin, Venetia Stanley, "let little Bess be at Harry's eighth birthday. I often feel my little lad is very lonely, and Bess's presence would make his birthday a double joy." In a moment I had scribbled back an answer. Of course Bess must go, I wrote. Harry was a dear little boy, and being entertained and the art of entertaining are parts of the higher and necessary education of children. I carried down my note myself, and assured Fräulein of my delight in accepting so charming an invitation for my little girl. Fräulein simpered, and I called for tea. At the Abbey there are no bells on the ground floor. Then I remembered the children, and turned to Fräulein and asked her if she knew where they were. "Heinrich is with Bess," I was told. About a quarter of an hour later, when a hissing urn was brought in, I begged Fremantle to ring my hand-bell, as a signal to the loiterers that tea was ready. For some time this summons received no answer, but at last, breathless but blissful, the children appeared. But in what a plight! Heinrich's deep red velvet suit was soaked and sadly soiled, and his cap and long flaxen curls dripped with moisture, whilst Bess's garments were running with mud and wet, and as they both stood in the chapel hall, little pools of water guttered down beside them. [Sidenote: FRÄULEIN IS FURIOUS] Fräulein started up and screamed hysterically, and I darted forward. "My dears, how wet you are," I cried. "You must go and change at once." And without another word I hurried off both children to the nursery. It was an easy matter to put Bess into a fresh dry frock and into a clean white pinafore, but what could be done with Harry? I asked myself. He is a delicate child, and must not remain in damp clothes, so I turned to him resolutely, and asked, "Which will you do, Harry: get into one of Bess' dresses, or go to bed?" "Oh, auntie," he answered, blushing furiously, for he always calls me "auntie," although I am not his real aunt, "I would much rather go to bed than wear a girl's dress." So we were about to put him into bed when a sudden brilliant idea flashed through my brain. "My husband's dressing-gown," I murmured. In a moment, kindly Fremantle, who heard me, had fetched it. It was yards too long, but it was turned up with an army of safety-pins, and so Hals' vanity was not humiliated. At least he was clothed in male attire! And we must always remember that self-respect in a little lad is even more easily wounded than love. Five minutes later both children were dry, and clad in other costumes. "I don't think that they will be any the worse," I said to my old nurse, Milner. But as I entered the chapel hall I noticed that Fräulein looked as black as thunder. In her eyes the episode was a most disagreeable, even a disgraceful occurrence. Hals paused on the threshold for a moment and looked at me beseechingly out of his pretty, round, short-sighted eyes. "I am so sorry," I said apologetically, and felt really for a second a transitory shame, Fräulein looked so fierce and injured. "How did it happen?" I asked of Bess, by way of lifting the leaden pall of silence. "Only a rat hunt," answered that young lady, jauntily, with her mouth full of buttered toast, for she had not waited for grace, but had slipped into her seat at the head of the tea-table. "There was a rat," she continued to explain, "in the potting-shed, and Trump and Tartar smelt him out and ran after him, and Hals joined in and tumbled over. He shouldn't wear smart clothes when he comes here. Nobody wants him to. Gregson says, 'By gum, give me the varminty sort,'" and Bess laughed rather rudely, after which there was an awkward and prolonged pause. "Hals is your guest," at last I said severely; upon which Bess turned scarlet, and a second later plied Hals with seed and sponge cake at once. I had the velvet suit taken to the kitchen fire to dry, but I must honestly confess that its magnificence was, I feared, a thing of the past. While we sat on, Fremantle entered, and in his most irreproachable voice informed us that Mrs. Langdale (the housekeeper) was of opinion that Master Harry's suit would not be fit for him to wear again that day. At this Fräulein wrung her hands and broke out into ejaculations. "Mein Gott! mein Gott!" she cried, and began to scold Harry furiously. At this, Bess could keep down her wrath no longer. With flashing eyes she confronted Hals' governess. "It was my fault, all my fault," she said. "I told Hals to run like mad, and not to miss the fun." Fräulein did not deign to answer Bess' justification of her pupil, but glared at Hals; and we all remained on in silence, and I noted that poor little Hals had a white face, and that both slices of cake on his plate remained untouched. [Sidenote: FRIENDSHIP'S OFFER] "I will write and explain all to Mrs. Stanley," I said at last; "only," and here I turned to Harry, "you must go back in the dressing-gown, dear, and be wrapped up warmly in a rug. No colds must be caught, and the suit shall be sent back to-morrow." Hals nodded his head. Whatever happened he was not going to cry; only girls and muffs cried, but he knew that there was a bad time coming, when he would have to face the music. Bess watched his face. She was up in arms. Directly after grace was said, and this time by her in a jiffy, she flung herself off her chair, flew upstairs defiant, and breathless. A minute later she reappeared, her face crimson, but her mouth set. "How much?" she asked of Fräulein, in a hostile spirit. "How much? I say, if I _pay_, you mayn't punish." But here Hals dashed forward, and would not let Bess put her purse into his governess's hand. "Don't," he said; "boys can't take money from girls." And Bess was left stammering and confused, with her own sky-blue purse left in her little fat paw. I pretended not to see what had happened as I sat down and wrote a note to my friend, Venetia Stanley, to explain all, and to beg forgiveness for the little culprit. I pleaded that tumbles, like accidents, would happen in the best regulated nurseries. I addressed my letter, and stuck down the envelope. This done, we all sat on in sombre silence round the fire. All conversation died upon our lips, Fräulein looked so sour and forbidding. At last our gloomy interview was broken up by Fremantle entering the room and announcing the fact that Colonel Stanley's carriage was at the door, and a message from the coachman to the effect that he hoped the greys would not be kept waiting. Then without more ado, Fremantle lifted Hals in his arms, for the dressing-gown was too long to permit the little boy to walk, and Tom, the footman, followed with a thick fur rug to wrap round him. "Give Master Hals my note," I called, as the little party vanished through the outside door. Fräulein went last, an evil glare on her fat face, and "as dark as tempest," Burbidge would have said if he had seen her, and I noted that she would not take my hand at parting. She evidently thought the disaster that had befallen the red suit was due to me. I was _wae_ for the little man, as he vanished from my sight; that stupid German woman had no more sympathy with the young life that throbbed and beat in him, than if she were a table or a chair, and he would certainly have what the French call a bad quarter of an hour with her before she had done. Bess stood for a minute or two after they were gone, and we looked blankly at each other. Bess cried, "Beast, beast!" and then burst into floods of tears. "She will punish him," she moaned, "she will punish him," and she buried her face amongst the sofa cushions of the great settee. At first I felt powerless to soothe her, or to induce her to take a less gloomy view of the situation. "It is unfair and mean of the old Fräulein," she kept on calling out, "for I did offer to pay on the nail" (Bess has acquired a considerable amount of slang); "and I offered her all the money I had. Five shillings that came at Christmas, half a crown from Uncle St. John, and sixpence which I won in good marks from Miss Weldon." Bess was of opinion that so magnificent a sum was enough for a king's ransom, and ought to have bought all, or any attires, and to have silenced all voices of reproof. I did not undeceive my little maid. After all, it was all her earthly wealth, and all that she possessed she had offered to save her little friend from punishment. Later on darkness fell, Fremantle appeared with a lamp, and Bess fetched her work, a kettle on a vermilion ground of cross-stitch, which I have often been told "will be so useful to papa on his birthday;" and I started reading aloud, for Bess's edification, one of Hans Andersen's beautiful stories. [Sidenote: "BETTER THAN TRUE"] As I closed the book, Bess exclaimed, "It is not true, but it is better than true--beautiful stories always are--and there, at least, is no horrid German governess. If I chose," my little girl said, "I should only have a Yorkshire, or a Shropshire governess. Burbidge says there's many wise folks as cannot understand foreigners; and Crawley says, 'Give me plain Yorkshire, and I'll knock sense into any one's head.'" Then we discussed the story. I had read the tale of the Ugly Duckling, perhaps the most beautiful story of all fairy-land. Bess listened open-mouthed, and her eyes glistened like stars with joy at the end. "I shall always think a swan is a fairy prince," she murmured. "Why don't beautiful things happen much oftener? Only lessons, nursery tea, stains, and mistakes come every day." As she spoke, the old church clock struck seven, and Bess put away her work in a little crimson bag. I sat before the great open fireplace and listened to my little girl's talk. Through the latticed windows of the oratory shone a soft mist of stars. "Sometimes beautiful things really happen," I said; and then through the open door I saw old Nana standing. A hurried kiss from Bess, and the child was gone. Later on, in the evening, after dinner, I mounted the old newel staircase and made my way to the old nursery up in the roof with its latticed dormer windows. There, to my surprise, I found Bess wide awake. "I have told Miss Bess not to talk no more," said Nana, rather sourly; "but she will run on about Master Harry and his German punishments." My old body's sympathy for once was with Fräulein, for spoiling a vest and a velvet suit can never be otherwise than a crime in any nurse's eyes. I went and sat by my little maid's white dimity hung cot. "I think he will be forgiven," I said. "P'raps he'll turn into a fairy prince," said Bess, and she took my hand, "and then it will all come right." In a few moments I saw that she was getting drowsy, for she looked at me with half-closed eyes--one eye tinnin' and the other carrin' trout, as Shropshire folks say when you are overcome with sleep. Then Bess went on in the sing-song voice that so often immediately precedes sleep with children, "Hals was an ugly duck to-day, but he'll turn into a swan or something nice some day." "Some day," I nodded. "Yes, when Hals' birthday comes." And Bess's eyes closed gently, and she slipped away into the blessed land of dreams. When I went downstairs I found a letter from my friend Constance of the Red House, to tell me that at the last moment she was detained by a visit from a poor old body whose son was ill, and so couldn't come down to tea; but that she trusted on the morrow to find me, what Bess calls, "quite better." [Sidenote: BILLY FIRE-DEW COMES] The following day fresh snow fell. All nature lay covered up with what Burbidge calls "a fine hoodin'." Before my eyes a pure white dazzling plain of snow extended, and even the old stone roof and the ruined church glistened white and wonderful. As soon as I was called, I opened my window and saw my tame robin, who one summer was hatched in a yew hedge, appear on my window-sill. Billy Fire-Dew, Bess has christened him, and Billy Buttons he is known as, by Burbidge and the gardeners. He has a brilliant flame-coloured breast, soft rich brown wings, and large round liquid eyes. For a minute he rested upon the window, then with a joyous chirp he spread his wings and hopped upon a great Spanish chestnut sixteenth-century chest, which stands in the centre of my bedroom. On the chest are figures of gods and goddesses, burnt in by an iron. Happily I was not unprovided with suitable refreshment to offer my little guest. A scrap of sponge cake in a wine glass, saved from last night's dinner, met with his entire approval. It had been intended for Mouse, but as at the last moment she could not be found, so Bill was in luck. I sprinkled some crumbs about the chest, and on my writing-table, and he hopped about puffing himself out, quite unabashed, and partook freely of the breakfast I offered him. I did not move as I watched him, but remained standing stock-still. I have always found one of the great secrets of bird taming is to keep immovable, till all sense of fear is lost by constant familiarity. How beautiful he was, with his great hazel eyes, and his scarlet waistcoat beneath his sober hood. He chirped loudly as he ate, and then flew joyfully from table to bed, and from bed to table, and so at last back to the window-sill, uttering at moments his clear bell-like cry. Whilst I was engaged in watching my little feathered friend, I heard the click of the latch of my door, and Bess entered bearing in her arms the nursery cat Grey Smokey. "Oh, beware!" I cried alarmed. "Billy Fire-Dew is here." In an instant Bess had opened the door again and evicted her favourite, but not without noise; and Bill had caught fright, and with a loud shrill cry, had flown into the garden. Then, outside the door, Smokey began to mew piteously. "Let her in," I said, "she can do no harm now. Bill is quite safe." So the puss entered, and although habitually the gentlest of creatures, I saw that the instinct of an animal of prey was strong within her. For Smokey paced up and down my room; her eyes shone like topazes in the sunlight, and as she walked, she lashed her tail like a lioness at the Zoo. "She'd kill poor Bill if she could get him," I said. "Yes," answered Bess, "and eat him up, without pepper and salt. Cats are never really kind, not right through, for all their purring." Then Bess asked me what I meant to do, now that I was well again. "Papa," she said, "told me that I might go sledging some day; but this morning you must take me and show me where St. Milburgha was buried, and tell me also about the old monks. Do you know, mama, I often think of the monks in bed. Last night--I don't remember all, but there was something that happened with a man in a black gown, and Hals did something as a swan--I rather disremember," continued my little maid, with _naïveté_, "for I fell asleep before I could rightly recollect. But Burbidge perhaps will tell me; he knows a lot about monks. It is fine, as Nana says, to be such a scholard." "Ah! now I remember," said Bess, after a pause. "Burbidge declares that they walled up Christians, the monks, and drank out of golden cups, and hunted the deer." I was amused at Burbidge's views--they were obviously those of the very primitive Protestant. "Come into the garden this morning, child, and I will tell you a little about the monks." A few hours later I called "Bess!" from the gravel below. "Are you ready?" Then I heard a buzz of excited voices from the nursery, and a great fight, going on over the winding round of a comforter, and Bess leapt down two stairs at a time and joined me in the garden. [Sidenote: A WALK IN THE CLOISTERS] I had my snowshoes on, so I had no sense of cold, and round my shoulders heavy furs. Mouse sported before us rather like a benevolent luggage train, whilst the two terriers, Tramp and Tartar, cut capers, barked, and sniffed and frisked. These hunted in the bushes, darted in and out, and sought for rabbits under every stone and tree. They yelped and put their noses frantically into holes and corners. Whether the rabbits were real or imaginary it was impossible to say. Bright sunshine fell upon the old red sandstone of which the later part of the old Abbey Farmery is built, and cast an opalescent glare on the snow-covered roof. The old yew hedges stood forth like banks of verdant statuary, in places where the snow had melted, and on the top of a stone ball stood the blue-necked peacock. The day was deliciously crisp, clear, and invigorating, and Bess, as she ran along, laughed and snowballed me and the dogs, and so we wandered away into the cloisters. "Tell me about it all," said Bess at last, confidentially, after a time of breathless frolicking with the dogs. "Miss Weldon talks so much that I can never understand her." Then I told Bess in a few simple words about the cloisters. "There was, first of all, dear," I said, "a party of Saxon ladies who lived at the abbey, and the most beautiful was Milburgha, their abbess. She came here to avoid a wicked Welsh prince, and she rode a beautiful milk-white steed. And she was very holy." "I should be holy, if I rode a milk-white steed," said Bess, impulsively, "I am sure I should." And then I added rather irrelevantly, "St. Milburgha kept geese." "Saints and princesses always do," answered Bess, authoritatively. "I know what they did, they combed their hair with golden combs, and talked to emperors in back gardens. Then they always had flocks of goats or geese. I don't think they could get on without that, mama," said my little maid, with a gasp. "It must be very amusing," she continued, "to be a saint or a princess and have a crown. They have them in Bible picture-books. Anyway, they never have any lessons or governesses, hardly mamas, and they only talk to the animals." [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ THE CLOISTER GARDEN.] "But, my little girl," I urged, "saints have to be _very_ good; and then you must remember, Bess, that princesses in all the stories have to accomplish terrible tasks, and saints to endure terrible pains." "Worse," asked Bess, "than taking horrible, nasty, filthy medicines, worse than going to have teeth taken out by the dentist?" "Worse than that," I answered. [Sidenote: THE CROWN OF MARTYRDOM] "Then I think I'll wait a little," replied Bess, with composure, "before I change; for I should not like a crown after losing my teeth, or worse, or even jam-rolly, if I had to take tumblers of horrid physic first. And I have heard Burbidge say that, 'them as wins a crown must walk on hot ploughshares first.' Still," she added, "I should sometimes like to be good." "How about doing disagreeable things, Bess? For I fear, at first, that is what has to be done." "Well, mama," answered Bess, "not too good; not good enough to die, but just good enough to get a little more money for good marks than I have ever got before." And I saw by Bess's saucy smile that the day was a long, long way off when she would ever be what she calls very, very good, _i.e._-- Never dirty her hands; Never ruffle her hair; and Never answer back those in authority. For a moment we ceased talking, and looked at the old carved stone basin in which the successors of Roger de Montgomery's Clugniac monks bathed in the twelfth century. On the broken shaft which supported the basin are three carved panels; one represents the miraculous draught of fishes and the other two St. Paul and St. Peter. Bess shook her head and repeated sadly, "Of course I should like to be a saint, but there must not be too much pain. It isn't fair of God to want _too much_." Then we wandered round to the east side of the old house, and I looked up and pointed out to Bess the old stone gargoyles. And Bess looked too. "Those," she said, "are Christian devils. Nana says we never could get on here without a Devil, and the monks had theirs too." There are many times in life, I find, when it is wiser not to answer a child, and this was just one. Strong light often dazzles, and, after all, are we not all children groping in the dark? We peeped into the kitchen from outside, and saw the coppers glimmering like red gold on the shelves of the old oak dresser. Auguste, the cook, was chopping some meat, and the blows he gave resounded merrily through the crisp frosty air. I called through the mullion window and asked if the little soiled suit of yesterday was dry, as Fred the groom was to ride over to Hawkmoor and take it there in the afternoon. "Oui, madame la comtesse," cried Auguste, for by that title he always addressed me; not that I have a title, but that Auguste thinks it kind and polite so to address me. Besides, he has a confused belief that every English woman has a title of some kind, and that its exact nature is immaterial. As he spoke he opened the little oak door that communicates with the garden and exclaimed joyously-- [Sidenote: AUGUSTE'S SECRET] "Voyez, madame, le jeune comte will still be a joli garçon in it. See, he will still rejoice the heart of his father and mother in grenat foncé." So saying good-natured Auguste passed into the garden displaying in his arms the red suit. A miracle seemed to have been performed. There it was, spotless and dry, and as good as it was when made by Messrs. Tags and Buttons of New Bond Street. Auguste laughed and talked excitedly, gesticulated wildly, and assured me that he had saved the costume by un secret--mais un secret suprême known alone to him and to his family. "See, madame," he cried superbly, "le bon Dieu ne pourrait pas mieux faire." Then he told me in confidence that it was not in vain that his mother had been over thirty years gouvernante in the household of Madame la Princesse de P----. She knew everything, he asserted, "mais tous les secrets de ménage." I bowed my head, and happily had the tact not to press for an explanation, for I knew Auguste's recipes were real secrets, and as jealously guarded as those of any War Office in Europe. Bess clapped her hands. "Hals will be pleased," she said. "Because now old Fräulein need not be cross, and there will be no punishments." Auguste bowed solemnly. "Madame is satisfied," he said, and retired like a beneficent fairy god-mother into the depth of his culinary kingdom. The difference between our people and the Latin races is great. I have often noticed that Frenchmen or Italians are delighted to know any housewifely trick or wile--and that ignorance of all other departments but their own does not, in their eyes, constitute intrinsic merit. Foreigners seldom say, "That was not my business, sir," or "not my department." Whereas, in every well-constituted English domestic mind, "not my business," or "not my work" is a creed to be cherished firmly, whatever else dissolves or changes, and is treated as the bulwark of English domestic life. Before I left the kitchen door I asked for a saucer of chopped egg, a slice of sponge cake, a roast potato, and half an apple for the inhabitants of my aviary. Tramp and Tartar started barking furiously, in a noisy inconsequent way; and off Bess and I went armed with dainties. Mouse followed gravely, but not without misgivings, for she took no interest in birds, and felt, I am sure, that they enjoyed far too much consideration from me. Bess and I descended the steps which led down from the garden to the field, but held on tightly to the rails, for it was slippery. "Mummie," cried out Bess, "mind, for it is slippery all over, like walking over a glass door." However, we neither of us fell, and reached the aviary door in safety. Then we saw rather a wonderful sight: some forty canaries of all colours--green, cinnamon, jonquil, clear and mealy, yellow, spotted and flaked, were all to be found there. Poor little dears! They were making the most of the wintry gleams of sunshine, and some of them looked rather hunched up and puffy from the cold. They have a thatched shed, and in front, facing due south, a long flight of some twenty feet for exercise, beneath fine wire netting. But their playground was cold, as Bess said. As we entered the cage, they flew round us with cries of joy. Canaries are very easily tamed, and they perched on the saucer containing the food. They ate greedily the chopped egg, and pecked at the sponge cake and apple. Bess ran into their "bedroom" as she calls it, and squeezed on "their dressing table" the "heart" of a big potato cooked "in his jacket." One cock was singing sweetly. Burbidge must have given them water only a few minutes before, for it was still tepid in the dish, and some were drinking with avidity. We dropped a few drops of sherry into the water to act as a cordial, from a flask that Burbidge had got stowed away in a little box of what he calls "extras," and I added a couple of rusty nails from the same store. I noted that my dear old cock canary, "Bourton Boy," that I have had some ten years and known from an egg, looked a little mopish--what Bess calls "fat and fluffy." I watched him in silence, and tried to discover what it was he lacked. There was an ample supply of egg, apple, and of potato, not to speak of canary, rape, and hemp seed, but he fluttered round and at last pecked violently at a crystal button on my coat; then I knew what he was after, and called out "sugar." Bess echoed the cry, and darted off like a little fairy for some, finely pounded, in a scrap of paper from kind Auguste, who adores "toutes les bêtes de madame." We had discovered rightly what it was that the Bourton Boy was in need of. He uttered a note of joy, and fell upon the sugar with a right good will directly we had placed it in the cage, whilst Bess watched him. [Sidenote: BOURTON BOY'S REQUEST] "Why don't you give him lettuce, too? Auguste offered me some salad," she asked. "It is not good for canaries till the spring," I replied. Then I went to the end of the shed to see if there was plenty of fat bacon hanging up--the birds' cod liver oil, as old Nana calls it. I inspected a piece some three inches long and two wide. It was pecked all over by voracious little beaks, and was quite thin in places. Fat bacon is an excellent adjunct to an aviary, and is one of the best means of keeping birds in health, and of special value to hens during the nesting season. In winter, also, it seems to be very nourishing, and to give great gloss and lustre to their plumage. After seeing that their larder was well supplied, I turned to their baking-tin, full of red sand and very fine oyster grit. It is really astonishing, what an amount of grit all birds require to keep them in health. I poked up the contents of the tin with my walking-stick. It was amusing to watch the birds. In a moment all had left the seed, egg, or potato, and were engaged in picking up the freshly turned sand. A few months ago I was obliged to have the floor of the aviary firmly cemented down, as otherwise I found that mice burrowed from underneath and effected an entrance, and then attacked my pets. The cement in a few days hardened, and now is like a rock, and I am glad to say inroads from the furry little barbarians have become impossible. "My children of light," as I call them, having been visited, I turned away and escaped with Bess out of the aviary, but not without great care, and having resource to some stratagems, for my little feathered friends all followed me closely, curious, and always hoping for fresh delights. At a given signal, Bess slipped under my arm, and we closed the door like lightning behind us. As we mounted the stairs, we saw the old gardener Burbidge waiting for us at the top. He looked like a picture of Old Time, with his grey hair, his worn brown overcoat, his long grey beard, and behind all, the background of snow. "They are all well," I called out to him, "in spite of the cold." "They was matted up yesterday," answered the old man, pointing downwards to my pets. Then he went on to say how he and the gardeners strengthened the artificial hedge on the east side, by adding fir branches and some mats, "for it was fit to blow their feathers out, that mortal sharp was the eastwinder;" and Burbidge looked at my pets with indulgent pity, and added, "They be nesh folks, be canaries, for all they write about them." Then he suspected Bess of giving them forbidden food. "They mustn't have no green food. It be as bad for 'em as spring showers be for sucking gulleys" (goslings), he added, "and that be certain death." "But I haven't given them anything not allowed," stammered out Bess, indignantly; "mama and I have only given them what we always do." "Ah!" said Burbidge, softening, "that won't be no hurt then; and as to potato and apple, they be the best quill revivers out, come winter. But what sort of apple was it?" I replied that the apple was a "Blenheim Orange" and no American. [Sidenote: "NO NEED OF FOREIGN STUFF"] "No need of foreign stuff in Shropshire," answered Burbidge, proudly. "Our late apples are as sound as if they were only fruited yesterday." Then I told him that the potato was one of the same sort that I had last night at dinner--floury, sweet and mealy. "Then I'll be bound," he replied, "you had an Up-to-Dater, or may be a Sutton's Abundance; they be both sound as a sovereign, real gold all through. No blotches or specks in they. We had four roods of both on the farm. Fresh land, no manure and a dusty summer, and tatters will take care of theirselves; but come a wet year, a field potato is worth two in a garden, although I says it as shouldn't, but truth is truth, although you have to look up a black chimney to find it, as folks say." Then old Burbidge went on to tell me how "Potatoes be right house wenches in a garden, or same as clouts to floors; but don't you go to takin' 'em from their nature too early, for when the tops bleed the tubers will never be fit for squire's food, only fit for a petty tradesman's table," and this with Burbidge is always a dark, and outer land of disgrace. Bess, Burbidge and I paced along the neat swept paths. At last I got my word in. "No damage done by the snow?" I asked. "I don't allow no damage," was our old retainer's stern reply; "leastways, not after daylight. I and lads were out again with poles this morning." We wandered round the close-clipped yews, and peeped over into the borders beyond, while Burbidge talked of "how all had been put to bed" with pride. "Them as wants next year must mind this," he exclaimed. All my tea-roses, Chinese peonies, and tender plants had been duly covered up with fern; and branches of spruce and Austrian fir had been carefully placed in front of my clematises Flammula, Montana, and Jackmanni, and round the posts on which my Crimson Rambler, jessamine, and vine ramped in summer. "They are just resting comfortable," said Burbidge, complacently. "We all want sleep--plants and men--but let the plants have it suitable, same as childer in their beds." We had come to the end of the red-walled garden, and as he said this, Burbidge opened the wrought-iron gate, and I passed down the flight of stairs which leads to the front drive. "To-morrow we must talk about the list of flowers," I cried, before he was out of sight and hearing; "we must not forget the butter-beans, and the foreign golden lettuces." Burbidge nodded, but not enthusiastically. He doesn't what he calls "hold to foreign things." England is his country, and, above all, Shropshire his county, but being very faithful, he is indulgent to my foibles. As Bess and I walked along the pathway, we lingered in the cloisters, and for a moment looked away at the far distance. We saw nothing but white fields which lay glittering in the sunshine, and the spire of the parish church to the west, which shone like a lance under the clear sky. "Some day," Bess said, "take me right away, mamsie, far away with the dogs," and she pointed to the snow-clad meadows that stretched round the old Abbey precincts. "I like fields," she added, "better than gardens to walk in, for there are no 'don'ts' there for the dogs." [Sidenote: A RUINED HEDGE] This remark from Bess alluded to my dislike of broken hedges, for, as Burbidge says, "A yew hedge broken, is a kingdom ruined." I remember this scathing remark was made on a terrible occasion when the great Mouse dashed through a yew hedge in hot pursuit of a very young rabbit, and indeed training down and replacing the broken limb of the yew was no slight matter. It was, in Burbidge's phraseology, "a long and break-back job, bad as sorting sheep on the Long-Mynd in a snow-storm;" for, as our old gardener expressed it, "Nature be often full of quirks, and sometimes disobliging as a maiden aunt that's got long in the tooth, and that walks snip-snappy, with an empty purse." Ever since this mishap my great hound's sporting habits have been, therefore, somewhat restricted in the Pleasaunce. But if things have gone wrong by evil chance, and large, very large, paw-marks can be detected on the beds, Burbidge is not without his passing sarcasm. "I prefer a bullock," or "Big dogs be made for kennels," he will say. I recalled these reminiscences of spring and summer days, but felt sure, for all he said, that Burbidge would never hurt a hair of my dog's tail. Gradually the sunlight failed, and Bess and I went indoors. I found my friend Constance, of the Red House, awaiting my return. Her eye fell on my garden catalogues. "One wants in life many good ways of using common things," she said; "a variety in fact, without the expense of change." And then Constance agreed with me that vegetables in England were often only a waste material. "Many of us," I held, "only know sodden potatoes and cabbage, or salad with an abominable, heavy cream sauce that reminds one of a furniture polish." "Vegetables our side of the Channel," laughed Constance, "are a serious difficulty, partly on account of the cook, and partly on account of the gardener." We agreed that the gardener would hardly ever pick them young or tender enough, and that this applies to beans, carrots, peas and artichokes. This set me thinking, and I mentioned a visit I once paid to Chartres some years ago. It was in early June, and I saw several waiters all shelling peas in the courtyard of the principal hotel. I was surprised to note that each man had three little baskets in front of him into which he threw his peas. I was astonished to see so many little baskets, and asked why all the peas could not be put into one basket. "Oh, madame," said the man in authority, "at Chartres we acknowledge three qualities of peas, and then there are the pods, for the pea-soup." In what English household would it be possible to get the same amount of trouble taken? "The methods adopted in England are different," said Constance dryly. "As regards peas--generally the gardener leaves them till they have attained the hardness of bullets, and then the cook cooks them solely with water, and so a very good vegetable is made as nasty as it is possible to make it." Then we both came to the conclusion that peas, "as a fine art," should be picked very young, or else they were very unwholesome, and that they should have mixed with them a little gravy, cream, or fresh butter. After this Constance asked me about my butter-beans, which, she told me, she thought excellent one day when she lunched with us last September. I told her that the variety that I grew chiefly was Wax Flageolet, and that my seed came from the foreign seedsman, Oskar Knopff, but that now all sorts of butter-beans can be got from English nurserymen, and that Messrs. Barr and Veitch have those and many other excellent sorts. "They are also as easy to grow, Burbidge says, as the old-fashioned French kinds," I remarked, "but more juicy and mellow, although they do not look quite so nice on the table. Auguste likes to give them a few minutes longer in boiling, and invariably adds, as is the French and Italian habit, some haricot beans of last year of the old scarlet runner sort boiled quite soft." Then I praised the foreign habit of serving all vegetables in cream, oil, or a little gravy, and added it is setting the vegetable picture in a good frame. Then from beans we turned to potatoes, and we discussed the best kinds to grow in a moderate-sized garden. From vegetables we wandered off to embroidery. [Sidenote: A "WROUGHT SHEET" PLANNED] "I want," Constance told me, "to design a quilt for a big 'four-poster.' What they would in the seventeenth century have called a 'great wrought sheet.' I am thinking of doing," she said, "a great border of old-world flowers all round my 'bed-spread,' as it is now called in the art shops." "What more enchanting," I cried enthusiastically, and recalled to her mind the beautiful woodcuts that illustrate "Gerard's Herbal." "There are there, all the flowers and herbs," I said, "that you could possibly wish for, and they are all exquisitely drawn and well adapted for such a purpose. The Great Holland, the single Velvet, the Cinnamon, the Provence and the Damask roses, the very names are full of poetry; then of wild flowers, you must think of the Wolfe's Bane, the Mede Safron, Ladies' Smock, and Golden Mousear. In the garden, there is the Guinny Hen, and, above all, the gilly-flowers of sorts, and May pinks; and round you might work scrolls of words from poets and philosophers about the joys of sleep." Then we talked the matter over, and I got quite keen about the colour of the background, and suggested a particular tint of jonquil canary. But Constance would not hear of this, declared she preferred white, and meant to use the hand-made "homespun," as Shropshire folks call the sheets of the country that were made formerly at Westwood and round Wenlock up to the second half of the last century. "I bought," she told me, "several old pairs of large hand-made linen sheets at a sale two years ago, and I feel sure they will be delightful to work on. They are not unlike the Langdale linen, only not so fine." Then Constance went on to say how, in the eighteenth century, every farmhouse in Shropshire had its spinning wheels, and every cottager her love spinning, when her neighbours would come and spin with her out of love and good-fellowship. Besides the good wife's spinning, many a maiden's wedding garments were thus made for her by her own playmates, while it was with her own hands that the lass's wedding sheets were always spun. Was it a better world, I have often asked myself, when women loved their spinning-wheels and tambour-frames? Anyway it was a simpler world we both agreed, and probably a more contented one, for all ladies then took delight in superintending, and in the perfection of household work; and the world, high and low, did not commonly feel wasted as it so often does now; and our tongues ran on, on the servant problem. [Sidenote: THE SERVANT PROBLEM DISCUSSED] "A little more education," argued Constance, "and perhaps the world will move more smoothly. If all the girls could play a tune or two and knew a little more French, the world would not be so proud of one-finger melodies, or isolated syllables of Gallic, that we can vouch are incomprehensible to the native understanding. 'Tis not to be expected, as old Betty in the Dingle says, 'as the sun can find all the crannies at once.' Education is slow because gentility is great, and real love or desire for knowledge rare. What we want is not, as Montaigne said, 'more education, but better education.'" Then we wandered on to what is knowledge and what are the things worth knowing, and no doubt the hour till tea would have passed all too quickly, if we had not been interrupted by Bess, who dashed downstairs breathless, and bubbling over with excitement. "A letter," she cried, "and a letter all for me. Nana," she explained, "said I must not say 'yes' without your leave. But why should papa only have dogs as a matter of course? Here is the note." I took the little crumpled paper from Bess's hands. It was from Maimie Armstrong and written to Bess by a friend's little girl. I read that "there are several little pups. Mamma," continued Maimie, "says you are to have one when it is old enough to leave old Nick-nack. They are all blind now and cannot see, but suck all day. One shall be sent in a basket. "P.S.--I didn't write all this myself, because ink often goes wrong with me and I can't spell, but James, the footman, has done it for me." And then in a very large round child's hand. "Your loving friend, Maimie Armstrong." I straightened out the little sheet and then looked round at Bess. She was literally trembling with excitement and she could hardly speak, but somehow she managed to gasp out, "Mama, I cannot live without a pug-pup." For the moment I believed she was speaking the truth, so I answered, "Yes, dear, we must have even a pug-pup if it is a necessity." "Yes, yes," cried Bess, with rapture; "and then I shall be quite, quite happy ever afterwards." "What a good thing it is to be a child," said Constance, softly. "One wants everything so badly." At my acceding to Bess's request, Bess ran to me and hugged me rapturously, and called out to old Nana, who had just appeared at the head of the stairs, "I told you so; and the pug-pup is to live in the nursery." Nana did not greet this news with the pleasure expected of her, and as the two mounted the stairs, I heard my old female retainer grumble something to herself. But give her time, as Bess always says, "and Nana will always come round, and find you a sweet out of some cupboard before she's done." My old Nana keeps her chamber spotless, tells my little maid long old stories of Shropshire, and wages ceaseless war against fringes and furbelows in her nursery maid. "God made me a good servant," she always says, with austere pride. And I add reverently, "The Lord only knows the extent of her long devotion." It has weathered many storms, and has bid defiance to the blasts of misfortune, and to the frosts of adversity. Like the gnarled oak of one of her native forests, Nan has sheltered many young generations of saplings, and in her master's family have centred her interests, her pleasures: to their well-being she has given her life. In the evening, after dinner, I went up the old stone staircase that leads to the nursery. Bess was sleeping peacefully, but she was not hugging, as is her wont, her favourite old doll "Sambo." [Sidenote: THE PUG PRINCE] "Her wouldn't to-night," explained Nana, "my little lamb; her thinks of nothing but the pug-pup. I holds to dolls for little ladies, but Miss Bess, she holds to dogs for herself. 'Oh, Nana,' her said, when I was bathing her, 'I could not live without dogs. God makes them into brothers for me.' "Then I said, 'Why do you like 'em like that? 'Tis almost a sin.' She answered, 'God never makes them answer back; and then we can do with different toys.' "Well," concluded Nan, pensively, as she took up her sewing, "my old aunt said God Almighty made caterpillars for something, and I suppose even dogs b'aint made for nought, leastways, they be pleasures to some." I laughed, for behind me, padding up the stairs reluctantly, but faithfully, I saw through the open door my great Dane. "I should miss Mouse dreadfully. Bess is right," I cried, "one's dog never answers back, and is loving and sympathetic at all times, in and out of season." I passed gently out of the room and went downstairs. I left the dimity-hung chamber, and as I did so I had a vision of a little bright, happy face. At seven, a pug-pup may seem almost a fairy prince, or possess all the gifts of the philosopher's stone. "Oh, happy childhood," I said, "which asks so little and wants it so badly." Great logs of wood blazed gaily on the great open hearth of the chapel hall, between delicate bronze Italian dogs. The moon was shining down from a sky of placid splendour, and the little oratory looked in the evening light wonderful, and mystic. Through the old irregular lattice windows I felt as if a message of peace was being brought to me. No sound of bird or cry of beast greeted my ears. A copy of Thomas à Kempis' immortal book lay near me on the table. I took it up and read. "In the Cross is Salvation, in the Cross is life. In the Cross is the perfection of sanctity." I read the beautiful words over, and over again. How exquisite the language is. What hope and radiance beam through every syllable. "Yes," I said, in the stillness of this wonderful place, "I too can hear His message, for this once also was a holy and austere place, where men poured out their lives in the ecstasies of prayer." Then I thought of the monk of St. Agnes as I saw him in imagination across the long centuries, denying himself all that makes life sweet, and welcome to most men, and devoting himself heart and soul to holy meditation, and still holier penmanship. Idleness he abhorred; labour, as he said, was his companion, silence his friend, prayer his auxiliary. There seemed almost an overpowering sense of holiness in the serene calm of the Abbey, and I strove against it as if the air were unduly burdened with an incense too strong to bear. I rose and went to the door and let in the night air. I saw the dim outline of the trees and the dimmer outline of garden-bed and bush. As I looked, in strange contrast, the glory of the summer days returned to me. In the cold of January my mind floated back to the joy of faintly budding woods, to deep red roses, to the rich perfume of bee-haunted limes, and to pure lines of blossoming lilies. All these I saw in my soul as I stood and gazed into the chill darkness. The flowers seemed to laugh at me, and were accompanied by fair visions of Joy, Love, and Life; but grim forlorn winter, the symbol of the lonely soul in the mountain heights, has also its own beauties. I looked round again, and the mystic sides of Renunciation held me fast. The peace and devotion of the past seemed to hold and chain me with irresistible force. I shut the door and stood again in the place where saints had stood. [Sidenote: THE HOLY PLACE] Beside me was the great stone altar with its seven holy crosses, before which kneeling kings had received the sacrament, and where saint and sinner had received alike absolution. Outside alone the stars were witnesses of my presence. They shone as they had shone a thousand years ago, as they will shine a thousand years to come. Pale, mystic, and eternal, a holy dew of wonder seemed to fall upon my shoulders, the Peace of God is not of this world, nor can it be culled from the joys of life. It is the Christian's revelation of glory, but those that serve can hear at times the still calm voice of benediction in such silent places as this, or in the supreme moment of duty, "for in the cross is the invincible sanctuary of the humble, in the cross of Christ is the key of Paradise." The next morning I rose early. There was much to do, for life can be as busy in the country as in town. I wrote my letters, and according to my constant custom--much laughed at, be it said, by many friends--jotted down my engagements, duties, and pleasurable excitements for the day. There were-- Some blankets to send to the poor. My list of flower seeds. And then Bess and I were to go sledging in the lanes. To English people sledging never seems a quite real amusement, and always to belong a little to the region of a fairy-story. Punctual to the moment, Burbidge appeared with long sheets of foolscap, and we made out the list of seeds. "Burbidge," I said grandly, as he handed to me the sheets of paper, "I leave the vegetables to you, save just my foreign pets." Burbidge bowed graciously and we were about to begin, when he could not resist his usual speech about disliking foreign men, foreign flowers, and foreign seeds. "Yes," I rejoined slyly; "but you must remember how many people liked the Mont D'Or beans and praised your Berlin lettuces." "Well, so long as you and the squire were pleased, I know my duty," replied Burbidge, mollified. "Which is?" I could not refrain from asking, for the old man has always his old-fashioned formula at the tip of his tongue. "Which is," repeated old Burbidge, rehearsing his old-fashioned catechism solemnly, "watering in droughts, weeding all weathers, and keeping a garden throughout peart and bobbish as if it war the Lord's parlour." "It is a very good duty," I said. "Yes," answered Burbidge, complacently; "new fangled scholards haven't got far beyond that, not even when they puts Latin names to the job. They have County Councils now, and new tricks of all sorts, but 'tis a pity as so many get up so early to misinform themselves, but there be some as allus will live underground and call it light, and there be none so ignorant as they as only reads books. They be born bats for all the garnish of their words." After which there followed a long pause--then Burbidge handed me his list of vegetables. "I haven't forgotten the foreigneerers," he said indulgently, "carrots, potatoes, peas, onions, celery, and greens, sprouts, and curls--enough even for a kitchen man, and the Lord Almighty would have a job to know what a Froggy cannot chop up or slip into a sauce. One might stock a county with extras, if one listened to they." [Sidenote: LOVE IN THE MIST] Then we turned to the flower list. Burbidge pointed with a big brown finger to my entry of "Love in the Mist," as I wrote, for I proposed having great patches of it in front of my lines of Madonna lilies, varied by patches of carnations, stocks, and zinnias in turns. "I don't hold," he said severely, "to so much bluery greenery before my lilies. There won't be no colour in my borders." Then when I protested, he added, "You like it, mam, 'cause it has a pretty name. There's a deal in a name, but 'tisn't all that call it 'Love in the Mist.' 'Devil in the Bush' was what my mother used to call it, and other folks 'Laddie in a Hole.' But there's a deal too much talked about such nonsense. Leave the maids alone, and eat your vittals, is what I tell my boys, and then there'd be a lot of cakey nonsense left out of the world." Then Burbidge, knowing my heart was, what he terms, "set on blows," bowed slowly, and vanished. Left to myself, I looked down the catalogue of flower seeds and ordered to my heart's content; packets of shadowy Love in the Mist, and Eckford's delightful sweet peas in exquisite shades of red, mauve, lavender, rose, pink, scarlet, and pale yellow. Then I thought of the sweetness of Centaury, the brilliant yellow of the Coreopsis, the perfume of the mulberry-tinted Scabious, and the azure glory of the Convolvulus Minor. I recalled the beauty of the godetias and the opal splendour of the larkspurs, while the gorgeous shades of the Malopes seemed to make an imaginary background of magnificence in my borders, and in my mind's eye the diaphanous beauty of the Shirley poppies seemed to add to the gorgeous sunlight of even sovereign summer itself. And lastly, as the latest annuals of the year, I did not forget to add some single moon-faced sunflowers, such as I once saw at Linley in the old garden there--worn, white, shadowy creatures with the tears of autumn in their veins. It is a great delight to order your own flower list. It means a true wealth of beauty in the future, brilliant colours and sweet odours, and the promise of so much in the present. Promise is often like the petals of last year's roses, and yet full of delights is the garden of imagination. I sat on and dreamt of my future borders, in which no frost nor hail, nor any evil thing would fall, and sat on drawing little squares and rounds on white paper borders when my leisure was suddenly disturbed. Too much leisure is not given to any mother of the twentieth century. And Bess entered like a thunder clap. "Mama," she called, "Mama, Crawley declares that you are going out sledging. May I come--I want to, I want to?" "Yes," I answered; "but you must do just as I tell you, get out if I tell you, and not do anything foolish." Bess agreed to all my stipulations. What would she not have agreed to, to gain her point? And conditions, before they happen, do not sit heavily on a child's soul. At last even luncheon was over, and Bess awaited the sledge, expectant and triumphant on the mounting-block. Just as Bess was sure for the hundredth time that it must be almost tea time, and that something must have happened to Bluebell, the sound of the bells rang out across the frosty air. "It comes, it comes," cried Bess, rapturously, "and oh, mama, isn't it fun. It's better than walnuts on Sundays, or damming up a stream with Burbidge, or even helping to wash Mouse with Fred," and my little maid, in a flame-coloured serge mantle trimmed with grey Chinchilla fur, leapt about with excitement. [Sidenote: WE JOURNEY IN A SLEDGE] A minute later, and Fremantle and the footman ran out with blankets, which they carried in their arms in great brown-paper parcels. Each parcel bore the name of one of the seven old women who were that afternoon to receive a pair of blankets. We got in, and then somehow all the parcels were piled up and round us--how I cannot really say, but like a conjuring trick somehow it was done. At last, when all was put in and Bess screamed out "safe," I shook the reins, old Bluebell looked round demurely, and then trotted off. Mouse gave a deep bay of exultation, Tramp and Tartar yelped frantically, and away we went. The dogs barked, the bells jingled, and a keen, crisp wind played upon us, packages and pony. We drove along the old town. We passed the old Town Hall with its whipping-post, and so up High Street past the beautiful old house known as Ashfield Hall, once the old town house of the Lawleys, where Charles I. is said to have slept during his wars, and where Prince Rupert another time dined and rested with some of the gentlemen of his guard. Ashfield Hall is a striking old house, with a gateway, mullion and latticed windows, and beyond extends the old street, known since the days of the pilgrims as Hospital Street. Overhead stretched a laughing blue sky, and all round was what Bess was pleased to term the Snow Queen's Kingdom. First of all, we went to Newtown. We passed the red vicarage with its great dark green ilex, and then up by the picturesque forge, where the blacksmith was hammering on a shoe, away by the strange old cottages on the Causeway, with a fall below them into the road of some seven or eight feet, on we went as quickly as fat Bluebell could be persuaded to trot. Then we mounted the hill, and I got out and led the old pony to ease its burden, for a sledge is always a heavy weight when it has to be dragged up hill. At last old Jenny James's cottage was reached, and her parcel duly handed out. "I like giving things," said Bess, superbly. "It seems to make you happier." "Yes," I answered; "but gifts are best when we give something that we want ourselves." "Don't you want the blankets, mama?" asked Bess, abruptly. "Well, not exactly, dear," I answered. "Giving them didn't mean that I had to go without my dinner, or even had to give up ordering my seed list this morning." "Must one really do that," asked Bess sadly, "before one can give anything?" "Perhaps, little one," I said, "to taste the very best happiness." Then there was a little pause, which was at last broken by Bess turning crimson and saying-- "Mamsie, I think it must be very, very difficult to be quite, quite happy." [Sidenote: GIFTS TO THE POOR] I did not explain, but saw from Bess's expression that I had sown a grain of a seed, and wondered when it would blossom. Then we turned round and slipped down the hill at a brisk rattle, all the dogs following hotly behind, to an old dame who had long had a promise of a blanket. The old body came out joyfully and stood by her wicket gate, beaming with pleasure. It is an awful thing, sometimes, the joy of the poor over some little gift. It brings home to us at times our own unworthiness more than anything else. Old Sukey, as she is called by her neighbours, took her blankets from Bess with delight. "I shall sleep now," she said, "like a cat by the hearth, come summer come winter," and her old wrinkled face began to twitch, and tears to rise in her poor old rheumy eyes. "Pretty dear," she said to Bess, "'tis most like a blow itself. I wish I had a bloom to offer, but 'tis only a blessing now that I can give thee." Again we turned, and pattered back post-haste up the Barrow Road to a distant cottage. "Is it a good thing to get a blessing?" asked Bess, suddenly. "A very good thing, for it makes even the richest richer." "Then," answered Bess, "when I grow up I mean to get a great many blessings." "How, little one, will you do that?" "Why," answered Bess, "I shall give to everybody everything they want, and buy for all the children all the toys that I can find." "But supposing that you are not rich, that you haven't money in your purse, or a cheque-book from the bank like papa?" "Then I shall have to pray--and that will do it, for I'm sure the good Lord wouldn't like to disoblige me." At last all our visits were paid, and we had left seven happy old souls, whom it was a comfort to think would all sleep the sounder for our visit of that day. As we drove home, Bess suddenly turned round and said-- "Mamsie, why can't they buy blankets?" It is very hard for the child-mind to grasp that the necessities of life--bread, blankets, and beds--do not come, in a child's language, "all by themselves." Puppies, pets, and chocolates, children can understand have to be paid for; but the dull things, they consider, surely ought to grow quite naturally, like the trees outside the nursery windows, all by themselves, and of their own accord, as they would say. I tried to explain to Bess what poverty really was, and told her what it would mean to have no money, but to buy the absolute bare necessities of life. Bess listened open-mouthed, and at the end exclaimed-- "Why has God given me so much, and to poor children, then, so little?" "I wonder," I replied; "but, anyway, as you have got so much, you must do what you can to make other little boys and girls happier. For God, when he gives much, will also ask much some day." Bess did not answer, and we drove back in silence. It was very still along the country lanes, save for the tinkling of the joyous bells. Behind us followed our pack, Mouse panting somewhat, for she had fed at luncheon time, not wisely, but too well; but Tramp and Tartar scampered gaily after us. The whole country seemed enveloped in a white winding-sheet, and the sunlight was dying out of the west. A soft white mist was stealing up over all, but the voice of death was gentle, calm, almost sweet, across the silent world. Cottages looked out by their windows, blinking, and appeared almost as white as the snow beneath them. Old Bluebell seemed to know that her trot to the Abbey was her last journey, and went with a good will. We passed the new hospital, dashed down Sheinton Street, and so into the Italian gates by the old Watch Tower of the abbot's, beyond the old Bull Ring where, through many centuries, bulls were baited by dogs. [Sidenote: "I WANT TO BE HAPPY"] As we drew up before the door, Bess exclaimed, regretfully-- "Oh, mama, why has it all stopped? I should like driving in a sledge to go on for ever and ever." I kissed the little maid, and we went into tea. Bess hardly spoke, and I thought her wearied by the excitement of the drive, but that night, when I went up to see her in bed, she called out-- "Mamsie, mamsie, come quite close. A secret." So I sat down on the little bed, and the little arms went round my neck. "Mama, I have looked out a heap--a heap of toys--to send off to poor children. My new doll Sabrina, my blue pig, my little box of tea things, the new Noah's Ark, but Nana will not pack them up. She says they're too good for poor children. Isn't she wicked, for I want to give them all, and to be happy--happy as you mean me to be." CHAPTER II FEBRUARY "The Hag is astride This night for to ride, The devil and she together, Through thick and through thin, Now out, and now in, Though ne'er so foule be the weather." HERRICK'S _Hesperides_. Some weeks had passed, and I had been away from home. Rain had fallen, and the snow had vanished like a dream--the first dawn of spring had come. Not spring as we know her in the South of France or in Southern Italy--gorgeous, gay, debonair--but shy, coy, and timid. The spring of the North is like a maiden of the hills, timid and reserved, yet infinitely attractive, what our French friends would call "une sensitive." There was, as yet, very little appearance that winter "brear Winter," as Spenser calls him, was routed and obliged with his legions of frost and snow, to fly before the arrival of youth and life, and the breath of triumphant zephyrs. A spring in the North is chiefly proclaimed by the voice of the stormcock in some apple tree, by the green peering noses of snowdrops, and here and there a crimson tassel on the hazel tree and larch; but, above all, by the splendour of golden and purple lights which come and go across the hillsides and athwart wood and coppice. The turf, as I walked along, I noticed was moist and soft, and oozed up under my feet. February fill-dyke, as she is called, had come in due order, and in appointed form. Little puddles glistened on the drive, and for all the patches here and there of blue, there were leaden shadows and grey clouds, and it was wise, if you wandered abroad, to have at hand the protecting influence of an umbrella. I walked up the back drive, till I stood before the well of our patron saint. [Sidenote: THE "HOLY ONE OF WENLOCK"] Long centuries ago the holy and beautiful daughter of Merewald, King of Hereford, according to old tradition, came here and founded a nunnery. The story runs that St. Milburgha, pursued by the importunities of a Welsh prince, found a refuge at Wenlock, and gathered round her a community of devoted women. Tradition tells the story of how the saint fled on one occasion to Stoke, a hamlet in the Clee Hills. The legend says that she fell fainting from her milk-white steed as she neared a spring there. As she did so she struck her head against a stone, causing blood to flow freely from the wound. At that time, about the middle of February, some countrymen were occupied in sowing barley in a field which was called the Placks, and seeing the lovely lady in so sad a plight, they ran to her assistance. "Water," she wailed, but none seemed at hand. Then St. Milburgha bade her steed strike his hoof against the rock, and, believed the hagiologists, water, clear, wonderful and blessed, leapt forth at her command. As it flowed, the lady is reported to have said: "Holy water, flow now, and from all time." Then she stretched forth her hands and blessed the fields where the barley had been sown, and immediately, before the astonished eyes of all beholders, the grain burst forth into tender blades of grass. Then St. Milburgha turned to the countrymen. "The wicked prince," she said, "and his pack of bloodhounds are close upon me, therefore I must fly." And she bade them adieu, but not till she had told them to sharpen their scythes, for the reaping of the barley should take place that night. All came to pass as the Blessed One had foretold, for as the countrymen were busy reaping their grain, the heathen prince and his followers arrived on the scene. But the labourers were true and faithful hearts, and neither threats nor promises could extract from them in what direction the Lady Milburgha had fled. When the prince saw that the peasants had begun to reap the grain that had been sown the self-same day, a great awe fell upon him and his lords, and he vowed that it was a vain and foolish thing to fight against the Lord, and his anointed. Other old writers tell how the river Corve, at the voice of God, saved Lady Milburgha; and how, as soon as she had passed over its waters, from an insignificant little brooklet it swelled into a mighty flood which effectually barred the prince's progress. Amongst other incidents mentioned by Saxon chroniclers, we hear that St. Milburgha drove away the wild geese from the plots of the poor. Many are the legends of the beautiful Shropshire saint that are still cherished in the wild country between the Severn and the Clee. She was as fair as she was good, it was said, and old writers told how, when a veil once fell from her head in the early morning sunshine, it remained suspended in the air until replaced by her own hand, and how she wrought a miracle by prayer and brought back to life the son of a poor widow; while all the while, a mystic and sacred flame burnt beside her, a visible manifestation of her sanctity, for all to see. [Sidenote: THE SAINT'S WELL] I thought of all these beautiful old legends, fairy-stories of grace, they seemed to me, as I wandered up the back lane and paused before the saint's well at Wenlock, which is still said to cure sore eyes. As I stopped to gaze down upon the deep well below, I noticed that the little wicket gate was open, and that a child with a little jug was about to descend the stairs to fetch what she termed in the Shropshire tongue, "a spot o' water." "Have you no water at home, my child, that you come here?" I asked. "Oh yes," replied the little maiden, Fanny Milner by name, "there be a hougy drop in our well after the rains; but grandam says I must get some from here, or she'll never be able to read her chapter come Sunday afternoon, with glasses or no glasses. Grandam says as it have a greater power of healin' than ever lies in doctor's messes, or than in bought stuffs neither. It be a _blessed_ water, grandam says, and was washed in by a saint--and when saints meddle with water, they makes, grandam says, a better job of it than any doctor, let him be fit to burst with learning." I smiled at the apple-cheeked little lass's quaint talk, and helped her to fill her jar. The belief in the healing powers of the old well lingers on, and many of the inhabitants of Much Wenlock are still of opinion that water fetched from St. Milburgha's well can cure many diseases, and particularly all malign affections of the eyes. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the holy wells of many Welsh and Shropshire wells degenerated into Wishing wells. They then lost their sacred character, and became centres of rural festivities. It is said that at Much Wenlock on "Holy Thursday," high revels were held formerly at St. Milburgha's well; that the young men after service in the church bore green branches round the town, and that they stopped at last before St. Milburgha's well. There, it is alleged, the young maidens threw in crooked pins and "wished" for sweethearts. Round the well, young men drank toasts in beer brewed from water collected from the church roof, whilst the women sipped sugar and water, and ate cakes. After many songs and much merriment, the day ended with games such as "Pop the Green Man down," "Sally Water," and "The Bull in the Ring," which games were followed by country dances, such as "The Merry Millers of Ludlow," "John, come and kiss me," "Tom Tizler," "Put on your smock o' Monday," and "Sellingers all." Such was the custom at Chirbury, at Churchstoke, and at many of the Hill wakes, and from lonely cottage and village hamlets the boys and girls gathered together, and danced and played in village and town. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ THE RED WALLED GARDEN.] After shopping in the town, I entered the little old red-walled garden where my annuals blossom in the lovely long June days. All looked sad and brown, and "packed by" for rest, as Burbidge calls it. I noticed, however, a few signs of returning life. The snowdrops had little green noses, which peered above the ground, and here and there the winter aconites had bubbled up into blossom. What funny little prim things they were with their bonnets of gold, and their frills of emerald green. I noted, also, that the "Mezeron-tree," as Bacon calls it, was budding. How sweet would be its fragrance a few weeks later, I thought, under the glow of a warm March sun. I passed along, and looked at a line of yellow crocuses. The most beautiful of all crocuses, veritable lamps of fire in a garden, are those known as the Cloth of Gold. The golden thread was full of promise, but as yet no blossom was expanded. How glorious they would be when they opened to the sunshine. There is indeed almost heat in their colour, it is so warm and splendid. [Sidenote: MANY-COLOURED STARLINGS FLIT] As I stood before these signs of dawning life, two starlings flitted across the garden. How gay they were in their brilliant iridescent plumage! The sun, as they passed me, struck the sheen of their backs, and they seemed to shine a hundred colours, all at once. I tried to count the colours that the sun brought forth in them, gold, red, green, blue, gray and black with silver lights; but as I named the colours, words seemed bald and inadequate to describe the beauty and mutability of their hundred tints, for, as they moved, each colour changed, dissolved, reappeared and vanished, to grow afresh in some more wonderful and even more exquisite tint. And then suddenly the sun was obscured behind a cloud, and my starlings, that seemed a minute ago to hold in their plumage the beauty of the sun and the moon and of the stars, became in a twinkling poor brown, everyday, common little creatures. Like Ashputtel when the charm was gone, they looked common little vulgar creatures, and as they flew over the wall into the depths of the ivy on the ruined church, I wondered why I had ever admired them. Starlings, some fifty years ago, were often kept as pets. Burbidge has told me that they are the cleverest mimics that breathe, being "born apes," so to speak. Now, however, my old friend declares, "none will do with them, for nobody cares for nought but popinjays, and then they must have the colours of a gladiolus married to the voice of a piano." So the English starling is no longer a village pet. A few minutes later, and Burbidge told me that a spray of Chionodoxa Luciliæ was out. I peered round and I saw some little hard china like buttons, folded tight in a sheath, and beyond, a cluster of bronze noses, about a quarter of an inch above the ground. How lovely they will be, I thought, all these delicate spring flowers. All blue, and all wonderfully beautiful from the deep sapphire blue of the Chionodoxa Sardensis, to the pale lavender of the dainty and exquisite Alleni. Yes, the world is alive, I said, and laughed; for I knew that spring must come in spite of snows and frosts, that the breath of life had gone forth, mysterious, wonderful, the miracle of all the miracles, and that the joy of spring and the glory of summer must come, as inevitably as death and winter. I turned and inspected a large bed of Chinese Peonies. I moved a little of the protecting bracken placed there by the loving hand of Burbidge, and peeped into the litter. Yes, they too, had heard the call of spring. A few shoots had pierced through the soil, and they were of the richest blood-red colour, like the shoots of the tea-roses on the verandah of our hotel at Mentone. They were of the deepest crimson, with a light in them that recalled the splendour of a dying sun. Then I covered up the shoots quickly for fear of night frosts, but with hope in my heart, for everywhere I knew the earth must burst into bud and blossom; and as I listened to the storm-cock in the plantation, I rejoiced with him in the lengthening days, and in the growing sunshine. [Sidenote: A JOYOUS CHAFFINCH] I passed out of the garden, and walked down the stone stairs, through the old wrought-iron gate, that is said to have belonged to the house where the Rye House Plot was hatched. Just outside, and perched on a silver holly, I saw a lovely cock chaffinch. A second later, he was strutting gaily up and down on the grass! What a grand fellow he was, with his lavender head, his greenish-grey back, his salmon breast, and the brilliant white bars on his wings! What a cheery, light-hearted little creature! "Joyeux comme un pinson," the French say, and he is certainly the most light-hearted of English birds. The Twink, or Bachelor bird he is often nicknamed, for when winter comes, many of the cocks stretch their wings and fly off to foreign parts and leave the hens behind. The pied-finch is his name in the village. By nature a most joyous bird, the pied-finch is the last of the summer singers, singing gaily into July, when the thrush and blackbird are mute. I stood and watched him as he hopped about the sward. He took no notice that I was near, for the Bachelor bird is very fearless and curiously little apprehensive, or timid. All of a sudden, I turned round and saw my great hound Mouse behind me. "Mouse!" I cried, and with a bound she was beside me. For the first twenty-four hours after my return, Mouse is miserable out of my sight. She always gives me a boisterous welcome, and will not leave me for a moment. She sniffs at my boxes, watches me out of the corner of her eye, and wanders round me, trying often in a foolish, dumb way to block my passage, if she thinks I wish to leave the room. Panting, and running behind my dog, followed Bess. "Mums," she said, "we couldn't think where you was gone. We hunted everywhere. 'Like enough,' Burbidge said, 'you was hunting for flowers.' But don't bother about little spikes and green things, for Mouse and I want you badly." "Hals is coming," continued Bess, "and this time without his crab-tree governess. Burbidge says, 'Give me a Fräulein to turn the cream sour;' and declares that 'You could make vinegar out of her!'" "Well, then, my dear," I said, "you and Hals can thoroughly enjoy yourselves, for you will be alone." "Yes," answered Bess, "for when I saw Hals I said, 'Nothing but old, old clothes--clothes that will nearly want gum to stick them on, and that won't mind any mud.'" "Did you enjoy yourself at Hals' birthday?" I asked, for on that eventful day I was away. "I should think I did, mamsie," and Bess's eyes glistened at the recollection. "There was no conjurer, but the dearest little white dog in the world, that did tricks, and he knew more tricks than a pig at a fair, Nana said; and after that Cousin Alice, Miss Jordan, read us some stories and poetry. First of all, she sang us such nice old songs about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary,' 'Little Boy Blue,' and 'I saw Three Ships come Sailing,' and then she went on reading poetry. She read us the 'Ancient Mariner,' and 'Sister Helen,' and I sat on her knee; but Hals wouldn't sit on his mother's, because he said people were looking, and boys had better sit on their own chairs. And 'Sister Helen' was quite real, and made me feel creepy, creepy. It was all about two sisters--they hated some one, and made an image, and they dug pins into it, and then they repeated bad words, and the person for whom it was meant got iller and iller and died; and Hals and me we liked it." So, chattering all the way, Bess and I regained the house. "Will there be cake--my favourite cake?" inquired Bess, "the one that Hals likes best of all, with apricot jam and chocolate on the top?" "Yes," I answered, "and Auguste has promised to make it himself. But only one helping. You must try and be wise, little girl." "I must try," said Bess, but not very hopefully. Half an hour later and Hals arrived, without Fräulein Schliemann. We all felt relieved; the two children embraced hurriedly, as if life was all too short to get in all the fun of an afternoon spent in each other's company; and then Bess said, "You can go now," sharply to the little maid who had brought him over. "We don't want to be unkind, but we want to be quite, quite alone, please;" then, thinking that she had not been quite courteous, Bess ran impetuously out of the room. "Poor thing!" she explained to me a minute after, "she must read, because she cannot play; she cannot help it;" and Bess gave Jane a story-book. "You will find that very amusing," I heard her say through the open door. "It is all about a naughty girl, but she couldn't help being naughty, 'cause it was her nature." Then Jane went up to the nursery, and a minute later Bess and Harry bounced off together. Before leaving me she whispered something into his ear. An hour later and Fremantle rang the bell for tea. [Sidenote: A GREAT, GREAT SECRET] After a few moments of waiting Bess and Hals reappeared. They whispered loudly, but I pretended not to hear what they said, for Bess told me with flashing eyes that they had a great, great secret. "The greatest secret, Mum Mum, that we ever had in our lives." Their faces looked scarlet, and as to their hands, it is hard to say of what colour they were originally. It was, however, Bess's special _fête_, so I said nothing tactless about cleanliness, nor did I allude to whispering being against the canons of good manners; for there are moments when a mother should have eyes not to see, and ears not to hear, and as a wise friend once said to me, "half the wisdom of life is knowing when to be indulgent." I need not have feared any excess on the part of the children as regarded the cake and the jam, for they hardly ate any, and Auguste's _chef d'oeuvre_ had only two small slices cut out of it. Bess, I saw, was under the influence of some great excitement. She could hardly sit still a moment, and fidgeted on her chair repeatedly, till I feared she would topple backwards, chair and all. At last tea was over, and grace was said, and the two children, breathless, and absorbed, begged leave to go off. "Yes," I answered, "but not out of doors; for, see, it is raining, and I promised your mother, Hals, that you should not get wet." "Oh no, it's nothing to do with puddles," cried Bess. "But, mum, may I take some pins from your pincushion? Nurse won't let me have as many as I want. And then will you say that nobody--nobody is to go near us?" "Very well," I answered, "only don't do anything that is really wrong." Bess avoided my gaze, and did not answer, and a minute later I heard the two children scuttle up the newel staircase, and shortly after heard the muffled sound of voices in the old tower of the Abbey that a Lawley is said to have erected in the middle of the seventeenth century. [Sidenote: THE FAIRY-STORY] About half an hour after, the children returned to me in the chapel hall. Bess, I noticed, looked white and fagged, and both children seemed exhausted by their play, whatever it was, so I made them sit quiet, fetched my embroidery, and began to tell them a fairy-story. I meandered along the paths of fiction. I fear my story had but little plot, but it had fiery dragons, wild beasts, a fairy prince, and a beautiful fairy princess, and, in the background, a wicked ogre. And as I talked, the children sat entranced. "You see," I said, as I heard the front-door bell ring, and heard the tramp of horses outside, "the prince was to have everything, all that his heart could wish--dogs, the golden bow and arrows, the azure ball, and the deathless crimson rose--as long as he restrained his temper, and never gave way to fits of violent passion. But if he swore at his old nurse, Ancoretta, or struck the goat-herd, Fritz, or even pinched the goose-girl, Mopsa, palace, dogs, bow, ball and rose were all to disappear like a flash of lightning, and he was to become again the poor little bare-legged village lad. Then the princess was to be carried off by fiery dragons, and never return till he, Florizel, had been able to grow good and pitiful again, and to do some lowly, humble service to some poor old dame that everybody else despised, and was unkind to." At this point of my story, Fremantle entered and announced the carriage. "Go on, go on," cried the children in one breath. "We want to hear what happened!" But I answered, shaking my head, "How Prince Florizel was rude to his tutor, ungrateful to his old nurse, and beat his faithful foster-brother, Fritz, is another story, as Mr. Kipling would say; and all this you must wait to hear in the second volume of my mind, which will appear on Easter Monday, when Hals shall come over, if his mother can spare him, and we three will all sail off in fairy barks with silken sails to the far and happy land of Fancy." So Harry departed, attended by Jane, and Bess sat on in silence looking hard into the fire, and then early, and of her own accord, pleaded fatigue and slipped off to bed. Just as I was finishing dinner I saw old Nurse Milner standing in the doorway. "Nothing wrong, nurse?" I asked, starting up. "Nothing very wrong," answered old Nana, cautiously; "leastways, Miss Bess is not ill, but she seems out of sorts and won't say her prayers to-night, and will keep throwing herself about, till I think she's bound to fall out of bed. I have asked her what's the matter, but she's as secret as a state door. She and Master Harry have been up to some tricks, I'll be bound, for I don't hold to children playin' by themselves, as if they were nothing but lambkins in a meadow. You can't tell what they won't be up to, but this you may be sure of, to childers left by themselves, mischief is natural sport." And old Nana glared, and made me feel very small. "No great harm done this time," I said, and went upstairs. "What's the matter, little girl?" I asked. I took a little hot, feverish hand and pressed her to tell me why she would not say her prayers. At first Bess was sullen--turned her head away, and would not speak; but she could not resist my kiss, and at last confession bubbled up to her lips. [Sidenote: A LITTLE MAID'S CONFESSION] "Mama," she exclaimed vehemently, "I have been wicked, very wicked--wicked as an ogre or a she-dragon. Can you love me really and truly when you know what I've done--really love me again?" "I am sure I can," I answered, "only tell me. When I know, I can help you." Bess buried her head against my shoulder, and then rambled on rather incoherently-- "Do you remember what I told you about Hals' birthday--how there wasn't a conjurer but a white dog, and how, after the tricks were done, Miss Jordan read us stories and told us poems? Well, there was one bit of poetry that I wish I had never heard, nor Hals either, and that was Sister Helen, because it has made me very wicked. It has made me think of how I could pay out Fräulein. We both hate her, she does nothing but punish; not punish you to make you good, but to make you horrid. Hals catches it for not washing his hands, for not brushing his hair, for not putting on his coat, for losing his blotting-paper, for dropping his pencil. Everything means a punishment with Fräulein. She pounces on him like a cat, and she has him everywhere." Then, after a pause, Bess began again. "Hals and I thought we would punish her, too--once and for all." "Yes, Bess," I inquired; "but what did you do?" "Mum, I was very naughty," replied my little girl, tearfully. "To-day, Hals and I went upstairs, up to the tower, and I got a dustpan and two candle-ends, and we lighted some sticks and some paper in the dustpan--I stole some matches out of papa's room--and then we melted up the wax." "And then, Bess?" "Then, when the wax was sticky and horrid, we stuck pins into it, and I said, 'Please, God, let Fräulein die.' And Hals did not want to say it, but I made him, for I said I wouldn't have God angry with only me. "And then I called out, 'Let her die, God, in horrid pain, like the snake last year that Burbidge killed and that wouldn't die straight off; and then, dear Lord, let her go to hell and be kept there ever afterwards.' But Hals wouldn't say that, because he had heard Parsons, their stud groom, say you must give every beggar a chance, so he bargained that she should come out one day and have some chocolates. To which I said, if the Lord lets her out of hell, it shall be only common chocolates, not like those that Uncle Paul brought me back from Paris. Then Hals agreed, Mum Mum; only he said, for all she was a German woman, the chock was not to be too nasty, seeing that she would only have some once a year. "Then Hals wanted to go away; but I said he shouldn't till we had done the whole job. "Then he and I blew out the fire and stamped upon the wax, and it was quite soft and squashy and I pricked my foot; but nurse does not know, for Eliza bathed me to-night, and Eliza did not notice." "And after that?" I asked. "Oh," sobbed Bess, "you will be very angry." "Never mind, go on," I said. "Then," said Bess, steeled to the point, in a penetrating broken chirp, "after that I told Hals we must say bad words, for I knew that bad words can do a great deal. But Hals couldn't think of any, so I called him a muff and a milksop, and I told him to repeat after me all that I said." [Sidenote: HOW COULD I BE SO NAUGHTY?] "What did you say?" "Mama, I called out 'damn' three times." "My dear, what a dreadful word! How did you know it?" "Oh, once I heard Uncle Paul say it when he ran a nail in his boot; and once I remembered that Crawley said it when he got his foot caught in a gate-post out riding, and I have never forgotten it. And worse," continued Bess, "I called out, 'hell! hell! hell!' and then I was frightened; but I didn't let Hals see it, or he would have said girls were only funks after all." "Well, little girl, you have done wrong, and you know it; for it is always wicked to curse anybody, and mean to pray that some evil may befall them. But," I added, as I saw Bess's tear-stained little face, "I am sure you're sorry; for think what a terrible thing it would be if anything dreadful happened to Fräulein, and if you thought your wicked words had brought it about." Bess's composure by this time had quite broken down, she broke out into a passionate fit of tears. "Why don't you beat me, why don't you shake me, or do something?" she cried. "My poor little girl," I answered, and I took her in my arms and prayed God that He would purify my little girl's heart, and give her a pure white soul. At last Bess's sobs grew less violent, and she lay quiet. "Do you feel better now?" I asked. "Yes," came back from Bess; "for the curses, Mum Mum, seem to have gone out of the room and to be dying away. Before you came, the whole place seemed full of them, and eyes, great horrid eyes, seemed to be looking at me everywhere, and I couldn't rest, do what I would." "Now you can sleep," I said with a smile, "and I will sit by you till all the evil spirits are gone, and guard you." So I sat on without speaking, and held Bess's hands till the dustman of children's fancy came with his sandbags and threw the sand of kindly oblivion into my little maiden's eyes, and she fell asleep. Then softly and as delicately as I could, I untwined the little network of fingers that had twined themselves so cunningly around mine, and gave little Bess a parting kiss as I glided out of the room. When I returned to the chapel hall I found a letter from Constance. In a postscript she told me that the idea of the quilt was taking form. "From 'Gerard's Herbal' I have chosen," she wrote, "the King's Chalice, or Serins' Cade; the Dalmatian Cap; the Guinny Hen; the Broad-leaved Saffron; Goat's Rue, or the Herb of Grace; Ladies' Smock; Golden Mouse-ear; Solomon's Seal; Star of Bethlehem; Sops in Wine; Ales-hoof; Wolf's Bane and Golden Rod. I give you all the old names. On a scroll I propose round the quilt or 'bed hoddin,' as Shropshire folks would call it, to work wise and beautiful words about sleep;" and her letter ended with an appeal to me, to help her, by finding some apt saws and quotations for this purpose. Of course I will; what a delightful excuse for looking through the poets, I said to myself. I looked at the old Dutch clock. Ten minutes, I said, before going to bed. Ten minutes, ten golden minutes, when it is not a duty to do anything, or a matter of reproach to be idle. The fire was dying softly down. I saw all faintly by the dim light of the lamp--the dark panelling, the two Turners, the old Bohemian bench, the stern outline of the altar, and outside the still night. [Sidenote: THE COMPANY OF SAINTS] "Are you not afraid to sit by yourself?" a somewhat foolish friend once asked me. "I should be terribly alarmed of ghosts." "Afraid of holy spirits?" I remember answering. "No crime is associated with Wenlock. There is only an atmosphere of prayer and saintliness there, a fragrance from holy lives rising up to God in perpetual intercession; surely such thoughts should make nobody uneasy or unhappy." "I don't know," my friend had replied. "But lancet windows, I know, always make me creepy--and living in a church," she added inconsequently, "would be almost as bad as having a house with a curse. I am sure I should always be dreaming of finding a walled-up skeleton, or something mediæval and uncomfortable." At which we had both laughed, and I confessed that I liked being left to my angels and my prayers, and that it was good to believe that one had a soul, and that all the forces of God's world were not comprised in steam, the Press, and electricity. Then, as I sat on, my mind reverted to the little child, sleeping, I hoped, peacefully upstairs. "Poor little impetuous Bess," I said to myself, "I trust some day she will not break her heart against the bars of earth. She wills, and wants, so strongly when the fit is on her, and then afterwards, remorse, sorrow, and despair." The child is the father of the man, and in my mind's eye I saw my little maiden as she would be in womanhood--dark, passionate, devoted, generous, impulsive, with a golden heart, but self-willed and not easy to guide. Heaven grant her pathway may not lie across many briars, and that I may be able to protect, and water the flowers, in the garden of her soul. All education is a hard matter, and we parents are often like children groping in the dark. It takes all that mother and father can do, friends and contemporaries, and, after all, in Burbidge's homely language, is often "a parlous and weedy job." We so often give the wrong thing to our children, and, what is worse, the wrong thing out of love and affection. We so often, as Montaigne wrote, "stuff the memory and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void." We are too often knowing only in what makes present knowledge, "and not at all in what is past, no more than which is to come." We do not think sufficiently of the development and growth of character. Above all, few fathers and mothers try simply to make their children good men and women, without which all is lost; for, as the great essayist said, "all other knowledge is hurtful to him or her who has not the science of goodness." We must not be afraid of emotion, at least, not of right emotion; nor must we be shy of offering our highest tributes of admiration to honour, virtue, and real greatness. We must not be ashamed to mention honourable deeds, and we must teach our children that honourable failure is better than dishonourable success. Life is not all an armchair for youth to rest in, or a country of roast larks even for the youngest, and there are higher and better things even than having "a good time." Such were the thoughts that flashed through my brain as I lighted my yellow Broseley-ware candlestick and went up the oak stairs to bed. --------------------- The next day, as soon as I had finished breakfast, I got a message from our old gardener, Burbidge, to the effect that he wished to speak to me, and that at once. [Sidenote: BROTHER BEN IS "OVERLOOKED"] I found the old man in the long lower passage of the monks. "What is it?" I asked. "Nothing wrong in the garden?" "Not so bad as that; but 'tis about my brother as I've come." "Your brother, Burbidge?" I repeated. "I did not even know that you had one." "Well," replied Burbidge, "'tisn't often as I speak of him, and 'tis twenty year agone since I've seen 'im, for when folks be hearty yer needn't trot round the country like a setter to see 'em; but now as Benjamin is old and in danger, I think as I'd better have a day off, and go and see him." "Where does he live?" I asked. "At Clun, just outside the town," was Burbidge's reply. "He's been there these seventy year, and more. When he were quite a lad he lived at Bridgnorth, but over seventy year he have a-lived with Farmers Benson--first with Farmer James, then with his son Joshua, and lastly with his grandson, Farmer Caleb. Benjamin he have a-buried two wives and thirteen childer, and the berrial of the lot have a-come upon him like tempest in summer. But he have allus kept hale and hearty--till this year." "Has Benjamin been able to work all these years?" I inquired. "Of course he 'ave," replied Burbidge, scornfully. "Of course he did, till he war _overlooked_." "Overlooked?" I said, and turned to Burbidge puzzled. After a pause, Burbidge, seeing that I did not realize the full importance of his statement, repeated, "Overlooked, and by a _black_ witch too." And then he lowered his voice and added, "For all their education, parsons, newspapers and what not, there be black witches, and some of 'em has hearts as black as hell, and can suck the very life out of a fellow." "But surely your brother doesn't believe that _now_?" "Doesn't he," answered Burbidge. "My brother knows better than to disbelieve in devils and witches. You don't catch him going against the Word of God like that. Yer might as well try to stir a puddin' with an awl, or to repeat a verse of Hebrew under a moonless sky, as tear up the old belief in the old Shropshire folk. The devil he won't go out of Shropshire for all the papers daily, and weekly, as ever town people read or write; no, not even to make place for trains, and motors. He 'ave his place here, and he'll keep his wenches, the witches, near him." "But what has happened to your brother?" I asked, as soon as I could get a word in. "Why, just the same as has been happening for years, and thousands of years to others, and which will happen, whether Shropshire be ruled by a king or a queen, and which be Gospel truth whatever they say, and which may come dwang-swang to any Christian man." And thereupon I heard the story of how old Benjamin Burbidge had been bewitched. I listened amazed, for the tale was more like an incident in some witch's trial in James I.'s time than a story of modern life. [Sidenote: BECKY SMOUT, THE WITCH] "Yer must know," continued our old gardener, "as Benjamin war waggoner at Bottomly Farm--and he have a-been so for years and years. And a fine team his war--a team of roans and all mares--to get foals off at the close. Well, and fat they war, and for all he war old, horse and harness Benjamin minded surely. His horses were to him like gold, and he put in elbow grease as if he war a lusty lad of twenty in minding 'em. Well, one day his granddaughter Sally, who keeps house for him, war mixin' meal for the poultry, when up comes Becky Smout as they call her there, an old gangrel body, weazen, dark as walnut juice, and the look of a vixen in her eyes. Some folks say she came to Shropshire on a broomstick, and some seventy year agone from Silverton on the Clee-side. 'Tis a land of witches that Clee Hill, and allus have been a stronghold of the devil, as old Parson Jackson used to say. When Becky saw the poultry meat, her belly craved for it. Her held out both hands ape-like and her cried out, 'Let it be a howgy sup, my wench.' But Sal war in a temper it seems. 'Let be,' she sang out; 'dost think I've nought to do but to cram thy belly as if thee were a yule-tide hog;' and folks say with both bowl, and spoon, Sal flung out in a fanteag, because it seems Benjamin had promised her for her own gewgaws what her could make by the sale of the fat hens and the widdies come Christmas. And Becky her let her rage and never, they say, spoke one single word, but looked at her darkly, speered round, and wrote some devil's characters in the dust outside the door; and as she passed down the lane they heard her laughin', laughin' like an ecall on an April morning, fit to split her sides in half. The next morning, when Sal got out to feed her poultry, she picked up the speckled hen, and a morning or two arter she found the yellow cock all stiff and cold with a kind of white froth round his mouth. And after that, her war all of a tremble, war Sal. Her began to hear voices, and to see things as folks shouldn't see, and to hear bits of noises everywhere. And a kind of sweat seemed to ooze out from her hands and feet, and her felt cold and hot all to a time, and the doctor's physic did her no good, nor could any of Mrs. Benson's draughts ease her. And they sent her off to the sea to stay with a sister at Rhyl; but Sal her came back queerer than ever, and her wouldn't speak, but would sit gaping and blinking as if her couldn't mak' nothin' out, nor understood nought. And all the while Becky would prance about aunty-pranty, and speer over the hedge, and laugh and jabber and talk a heathen tongue." "What is that?" I asked. "_Why, their own tongue._" "What is it like?" "Oh, never you ask, marm," replied Burbidge sternly. "No pure-minded woman ever spoke that tongue, but witches they take to it like widdies" (ducklings) "to a horse pond. And for all Ben had cried 'Fudge,' and 'You don't catch an old fox nappin',' as he did at the first when Sal were overtaken, he got mighty fidgety and couldn't stop still. He took to dropping his pipe, wud begin a story and then wud break off and laugh afore the joke was come, and his speech got queer like Sal's, and at last he could bear it no longer, and he went off to Becky. And he took a golden guinea that he had had off the first Mrs. Benson, her as they called madam, for folks said that she war a parson's daughter, and that she had given him for pulling her lad out of a brook over seventy years agone, and that he valued like the apple of his eye, and he pulled out the guinea from his waistcoat pocket and he said 'This be yourn,' to Becky, 'if for the love of God you'll take the curse off me and mine.' But her wudn't, wudn't Becky, and her only laughed and laughed, same as an ecall in the Edge wood. And then Ben ran out frightened, so that his legs seemed to give under him, same as a hop shoot that has no stake, and he came home jabbering, crying, and laughing like a frightened child, and nobody could do nought with him. [Sidenote: BURBIDGE SEEKS HIS BROTHER] "Farmer Benson, he tried to do what he could as _maister_; but Benjamin had lost all respect, and laughed at him same as if he had been his gossip. Nor could any of his childers bring him to reason, neither Frank nor Moses, his grown sons who live at Wolverhampton, and have families of their own. So at last Mrs. Benson, her has a-wrote to me, to come and try what I can do. And seeing that Ben and I we be true brothers, and he so down in his luck, I thought as I'd like to go and see him, and look in at a Craven Arms bit of a show of a few spring things, and so get a holiday and a sight of poor Ben at the same time, if so be I can be free to-day." I assured Burbidge that he was quite free, as he expressed it, and I trusted that he would find his brother better than he expected. "Only make him believe that Becky Smout is an impostor," I said, "and has no real power to injure him or his granddaughter, and all will go well." But at this advice Burbidge solemnly shook his head. "They ideas does for the Quality," he grumbled, "but workin' folks know better. Us wouldn't hold such creeds if they warn't deadly real." And so saying, my old friend clumped down the mediæval passage, and I was left thinking how little Shropshire was changed, in spite of board schools and daily papers, from the Shropshire of the Stuarts. A minute later and I heard a child's voice close to my elbow, and saw a little girl, Susie Rowe by name. "You here, Susie?" I said, and asked the reason of her visit. I was told "that grandam was but poorly," and Susie begged for a bit of tea and a drop of broth. "Grandam doesn't know," added Susie, blushing, "for her don't hold to begging; but Betty Beaman, the old body what lives with her, her says, 'Hasten up, my maid, and bring her something nice from the Abbey.'" "Of course," I answered, "Mrs. Harley shall have anything I have." And I called to Auguste to fill the basket with good things. He filled a little can with milk, got a packet of tea and filled a gallipot with _crême de Volaille_ from the larder. Susie passed me a few minutes later, weighed down by her basket, but all smiles, and she promised she would tell her grandmother to expect a visit from me in the course of the afternoon. Just before luncheon my little maiden appeared. She was sad, and silent, and I did not allude to what had taken place yesterday; but at luncheon-time I told her I was going to Homer, and invited her to ride Jill whilst I walked. It was a lovely afternoon, sweet and almost warm, but there was little sunshine. All was enveloped in a soft grey mist. We walked along the lanes, Jill nosing me at intervals for lumps of sugar. Mouse was of the party, and ran backwards and forwards very pleased and gay. A pony is always a pleasure to a dog; it seems to give state and importance to a walk. Tramp and Tartar scampered ahead, and sniffed and skurried round, and up, and down the high banks that skirted the track. At length we reached the lane that turns off from the Wenlock Road, and Farley Dingle, and we stood on the top of the edge before dipping down into the valley to the little hamlet below known as Homer. [Sidenote: BANISTER'S COPPICE] I stopped to look at, and admire the view; even in the subdued light of a grey winter's day it was enchantingly beautiful. The little cottages of Homer clustered in a circle at my feet, whilst round them nestled orchards of apple trees and damsons, which last would soon be out in a mist of white blossom, like a maze of stars on a frosty night. Far away I saw Harley church, the woods of Belswardine, the smoke of Shrewsbury lying like a mantle of vapour on the distant plain, and to the west rose the great hills of Carodoc and the Long Mynde, whilst immediately before me stretched the ill-fated spot known as Banister's Coppice. It was here, according to old tradition, that the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham, in Richard III.'s reign, was betrayed by his faithless steward at his house at Shinewood. The story ran that the duke's cause did not prosper, and that his Welsh allies melted away, so that he, finding himself hard pressed by the royal forces, and not able to collect fresh troops, hurriedly disbanded his followers and fled to the house of his servant Banister, or Banaistre, as he was called by some of the old chroniclers. Buckingham thought, having conferred great benefits on his servant, that he could count upon his loyalty; but Banister was tempted by the great reward, £1000, offered by the king for his master's apprehension, and told "Master Mytton," then sheriff, where he was concealed. The duke, according to the old story, lay in a ditch near the house, on the outskirts of the coppice, disguised, it is said, in the smock of a countryman, and was arrested at night by John Mytton, who came over from the old hall at Shipton, with a force of armed men. When Buckingham knew that his arrest was due to the treachery of his servant, he broke forth and cursed his faithless steward in the most awful, and terrible manner. He cursed his goings in, and goings out, the air he breathed, the liquor he drank, and the very bread he ate, and with the same curse, he cursed all his family. According to tradition, they all ended miserably. An old writer declares, "Shortly after Banister had betrayed his master, his son and heir waxed mad, and died in a boar's stye; his eldest daughter, of excellent beauty, was suddenly stricken of a foul leprosy; his second son became very marvellously deformed in his limbs, whilst his youngest son was drowned 'and strangled' in a very small puddle of water. And Banister himself, when he became of extreme old age, was found guilty of a murder, and was only saved by the intervention of the clergy, to whom he had paid large sums. As for the £1000, the king," says the same old writer, "gave him not one farthing, saying 'that a servant who had been so untrue to so good a master, would be false to all other.'" Shinewood House--for the old manor of the duke's time has gone--I could not see, but I knew the place, and as I looked across wood and meadow, all the old story and its tragedy came back to me. Some writers say that Buckingham was executed at Shrewsbury, but Shakespeare and Sir Thomas More declare that he was executed at Salisbury on the feast of All Souls. [Sidenote: A VISIT TO DONKEYLAND] Bess and I walked down the cart-track and looked below. Five or six donkeys were browsing on the scant herbage, for every one at Homer keeps a donkey, and the common name of the hamlet is Donkeyland. After a few minutes' walking, we left the main track, and made our way to a little homestead that nestles close against the hill, and is surrounded by a bower of fruit trees. As we turned through the wicket a band of dark-eyed children quitted the little school and greeted us. The children looked as if they belonged to another race than those at Much Wenlock. They had dark, almost black eyes, and swarthy skins. I have been told that in the end of the eighteenth century a gang of gipsies came and settled at Homer, built huts for themselves, married and settled there; and that is why the good folks of Homer seem of a different race from the rest of the neighbourhood. I paused before knocking at the cottage door, and begged Fred, the groom who had followed us, to take my little maiden for a ride, and bring her back in half an hour. "Mayn't I come in?" asked Bess. "Not to-day, for Mrs. Harley is really ill," I answered. "Take the dogs, and come back presently." Bess and her pony, followed by Tramp and Tartar, vanished, and old Betty opened the cottage door. All was irreproachably clean. The brass warming-pan over the chimney piece shone like gold, and the old-fashioned dresser was garnished with spotless blue and white china. There was a mug or two of lustre-ware, a few embroidered samplers on the walls, and a pot or two of budding geraniums behind the windows. Upon the hob a copper kettle hissed gaily. I asked after Mrs. Harley, the owner of the cottage. But Betty shook her head. "She 'ave a-heard the Lord's call," she replied; "but she's ready--been ready this forty years, and her wants to go." A minute later I found myself by my old friend's bedside. She had a wonderful face, this old village woman. Through it shone the inner light which once to see is never to forget. I sat down by her, at a sign from Betty, and asked her how she did. For all answer Mrs. Harley smiled. "I fear you suffer?" "That does not matter," came back from her, "for I am going home." The room was a plain little room with old oak beams across the ceiling, the covering on the bed was old and worn, there were only the barest necessities of life, and yet as I sat watching my old friend, I could almost hear the sound of angels' wings. In spite of pain, long nights of sleeplessness, and a long and weary illness, my old friend's face glowed with happiness, and in her eyes was that perfect look of peace, which remains as a beacon to every pilgrim who has ever met it. I offered to read to Mrs. Harley, but she declined. "No readin', dear, for I can hear Him myself. There's no need now to speak or pray, I'm goin' Home. I, what be so tired." Then she thanked me for coming, and asked me with an ethereal smile about "the little one. Mak' her grow up worth havin'," she added seriously. "Every child is made in the image of God, and it isn't parents as ought to deface His image. 'Tisn't only book learning, and fine dressing, as will make her a lady, but you'll do yer best," and she patted my hand affectionately. [Sidenote: TWO OLD FRIENDS] Then my old friend began to talk of her past life, of her early marriage, "fifty years agone," with a right God-fearing man; of her happy married life, and then, calmly and bravely, of her joyous and approaching death. "I am going Home," were her last words, and I shall never forget the exquisite certainty of her tone, as I left the room and followed Betty downstairs. A minute later, and Betty and I found ourselves in the little kitchen below. "I shall miss her terrible," she said in a husky voice. "Nell and I, years and years agone, were scholards together when old Madam Challoner taught in the little white house yonder, afore the new school was built. We growed up and we married, the same year. Her got a good man; I got a beauty, and a bad one. When Harley died, he left his missus the cottage, garden, a few fields, and a tight bit of money. Soon after her was left a widow, I went to see her, for Marnwood Beaman, my man, he fell off a waggon, dead drunk, and was killed, and I was left without a penny. I couldn't do much, for I had got cripply ever since I had got the rheumatics, so I made up my mind it war to the poor-house I war bound. One day (when I had stomached a resolution to carry this through, and it costs the poorest body a lot to do), I went, as I said, to see Nell afore I spoke to the overseer. "When I got in, Nell, her comed up to me and her says, 'What ails thee, Betty?' for my eyes were red and bulgy. Then I told her what war on my mind, and that for all my cottage war a poor place, it went sadly against the grain to leave it and to have a mistress to knopple over me, and give me orders same as if I war a little maid at school. "Then," added Betty, "Nell her brought me the greatest peace as I have ever felt. "Her said, with one of her grand smiles, and sometimes, for all her war but poor folk, Nell looked a born duchess, but with a bit of an angel too, 'Don't you think, Betty, of leaving and goin' to the poor-house or any other institution, but stay you at home with me. Pick up your duds and us two will live together, for my daughter be married. "'I don't want exactly a serving wench, nor a daughter, nor a sister, but some one as is betwixt and between, and a bit of all three. Thee can work a bit, give thee time, and we can crack an old tale together after tea; I shan't be timid with thee, nor thee of me. Us shall be just two old folks goin' down the hill together--and the getting down shall be natural, and friendly. I can take thy hand, and thou canst take mine.' "And her did give me a hand," exclaimed old Betty, warmly, "a hand that has kape me safe all these years; and I bless the Lord for such a true and good friend." We sat on in silence, and I could not but think how sweet, and loyal, had been the friendship of these two old people. Suddenly Betty got up and poked the fire. "Last time as yer war callin'," she said, "yer asked me, mam, what I could say about that Nanny Morgan, her as war a known witch. Nell won't name her, for her says Nan was given up to the devil, and all his works, and that her has something else to think of. But since yer are wishful to know, and the little lady is not here, I'll tell yer what I can. [Sidenote: THE STORY OF THE WITCH] "Nanny Morgan was the daughter of Richard Williams, and she war born and bred in a little house up at Westwood, on the way to Presthope. Yer must often have seen the place, as yer go to Five Chimneys. Nan war a fine, strapping lass when first I remembered her. Dark, tall, with steel-grey eyes. Her got into trouble when quite a maid for having a finger in the pie of robbing Mrs. Powell at Bourton. Her was tried at Shrewsbury for the robbery, and lay in prison, they said, a long time. When her got out of prison her own people wouldn't harbour her, they said, and she went and lived with the gipsies. There she learnt card tricks, tellin' of fortunes, and took to wandering and unchristian ways. Us didn't see her at Wenlock for a long while, but one day she turned up at Wenlock Market on a Monday, and told a friend that her had taken 'dad's old house' and meant to settle down and bide in the old place. "Her called herself then Nanny Morgan, though who Morgan war I never rightly knew, most like some tinker man. Anyway, her went to Westwood, and there her lived, told fortunes by cards and by hand-readin', sold love drinks, and was hired out as a curser--and of all the cursers, there war none that could curse with Nan. For her cursed the goin's in and the goin's out of folks, the betwixt and between, the side-ways and slip-slaps, till, as they said, there wasn't foot-room for folks to stand on, nor a thimbleful of air for a creature to breathe, that hard could Nanny curse. "She was terrible to meet," continued Betty. "Once as I war walkin' back to Homer after marketing at Wenlock, I looked up and Nan was full in my road, straight against the sky. How her had comed there, I don't know, but there her war, terrible fierce and sudden, and her great eyes seemed to look through and through me, and I fair quailed before her, as they say a partridge does afore a hawk. Every one war feared of Nanny," added old Betty, "for they felt before her as innocent as a child, and what war there as she couldn't do to them? "Nan lived on at Westwood and none dared say her nay, or to refuse her ought, and all the while she went on practising devil's arts, till her got her death." "How was that?" I asked. "Well, it war years agone." And Betty thought for a moment and then added, "'Twas in the year 1857 that Nan got her deserts. "There war a young lodger as had a bed at Nan's, and Nan took to him terrible, and the lovinger her got the more he held back; and the witch played with 'um same as a cat does with a mouse, and wouldn't let 'un off to marry his own sweetheart. So one evening, he went into Wenlock, and he bought a knife, and he stole back to her house, and she called him soft like a throstle. Then while she stirred her pot, he stabbed her to get free of her love philters. When Mr. Yates, who war mace-bearer and barber, comed up, he found Nan, they said, lying in a pool of blood, but they durst not undress her for fear of getting witch's blood, and we all know that that is a special damnation. "Her led a bad life, did Nan," pursued old Betty; "her kept a swarm of cats, and one she called Hellblow and another Satan's Smile, and her had a box of toads to work mysteries with, and these, they said, would hop at night, and leer and talk familiar as spirits, and besides these, there war a pack of wicked books. You yourself, mam, have her card-table where her used to sit. One leg of it higher than the rest, and the ledge below, was where her wickedest toad used to perch--it as they called 'Dew,' and that had been bred up on communion bread, to reveal secrets. Sometimes, I've heard, Nan would fall a-kissin' that toad and whisper to it all sorts of unclean spells. I couldn't abear the table. It might fall to speaking itself at nights, and then the devil only knows what it would say." There was a pause, and then old Betty went on to say-- "After Nan war buried, the books one and all war brought down to the Falcon's Yard Inn and burnt publicly. So that war her end, and a wickeder woman never lived." As the sound of Betty's last words died away, I heard the noise of horses' feet gaily trotting up the lane. "That will be my Bess," I said, "and as the twilight is beginning, I must return." Then I begged that Susie might come and tell me if there is anything I could send for Mrs. Harley, and we passed out of the door. [Sidenote: THE FIRST FLOWERS OF THE YEAR] As we neared the wicket, Bess called out, "Look, look, and see what I have found. Three snowdrops all white, a hazel nut-tail, and a nice sticky bud of a horse-chestnut; but never mind anything but the snowdrops, for they bring luck, Nana says." I took the first flowers of the year; what a dazzling white they were! And I recalled, as I held them, the old legend of the "white purification" as it was once called. "And to think," said Betty, smiling and noting our joy over the flowers, "as I haven't a blow to give my pretty," and she smiled at Bess; "but us has nought in blow, save a bud or two of the damsons, and I dursn't pull it, for folks say, him as pulls fruit blossom deserves the same as her as burns bread-crumbs, and I wouldn't bring her any ill-chance." Then I passed out of the little cottage precincts. I saw old Betty still holding the gate, a dim figure with a red shawl. Bess blew her a kiss, the dogs barked furiously; even Mouse joined in her deep bell notes, and once more we were under way on our own homeward journey. A soft grey mist gathered round us, with the growing darkness. All was very still after a few minutes, and the only sound that we heard was the baying of a dog in the distance at some lonely farm. Far away in the west gleamed a golden light. Once we passed a brown figure of some labouring man returning to his cottage, and as we neared a thicket of budding blackthorn we were greeted by the voice of a throstle singing his evening hymn. I carried my flowers reverently, for were they not the first promise of spring, the smile, as it were, of the scarce known year? "Mum," said Bess, as I lifted her off Jill's back, "could you spare me one of the snowdrops to keep in my own nursery?" I nodded acquiescence. "Because," pursued the child, "I should like one. Just one. It would help me, I think, to keep away eyes, and bad words, and perhaps might make me good and happy. Nan says they used to bring in snowdrops to make the children good, let me try, too." CHAPTER III _MARCH_ "To birdes and beestes That no blisse ne knoweth, And wild worms in wodes Through wynter thou them grievest, And makest hem welneigh meke, And mylde for defaute, And after thou sendest hem somer, That is hiz sovereign joye, And blisse to all that be, Both wilde and tame." _Vision of Piers Ploughman._ The winds of heaven were blowing, blowing; dust was flying on the roads. The old saying that "a peck is worth a king's ransom" returned to my mind. February fill-dyke had filled the springs and the streams, and now March with his gay sun, and wild winds was drying them as hard as he could. How pleasant it was to see the sun again! He had been almost a stranger in the cold dark months of the young year. Yet early as it was, Phoebus was proud and glorious and at his fiery darts all nature seemed to begin and start life afresh. Man, beast, and bird, all felt the mysterious influence of spring, whilst up the stems of all the trees and plants, the sap began to mount again. I woke up early, but the world had already commenced its work, golden rays of sunlight were pouring into the windows and I found, too, that the restlessness of nature had seized me also, so I went and peeped out of an old chamber that commanded the eastern garden. Outside, there was a sense of great awakening--the sun flashed merrily down on the frosty turf, and the congealed drops were already fast disappearing into the ground. Starlings hurried, hither and thither, like iridescent jewels, snowdrops lifted their heads and waved them triumphantly in the breeze. The quice, as Shropshire folk call wood-pigeons, I heard cooing in their sweet persuasive note in a distant chestnut, and as I fastened back the window the musical hum of bees sporting in the crocuses, caught my ear. From the end of the border ascended the fragrance of a clump of violets. How sweet is the return of spring, I murmured, and how wonderful. What a joy, one of the joys we can never grow tired of, or too old to feel afresh each year. Winter seems so long, and the awakening and sweet summer all too short. I returned to my room, dressed quickly, and then went out into the garden. [Sidenote: THE SONG OF BIRDS] Life, life seemed everywhere. The wild birds were singing, calling, flying backwards and forwards and seeking food. The speckled storm-cock, as they call the missel thrush in Shropshire, was singing gloriously on the top branch of a gnarled apple tree, whilst from a bush of ribes as I passed along, a frightened blackbird lumbered away with his angry protesting rattle. How handsome he is, the cock blackbird, with his plumage of raven hue, and his golden dagger of a beak. In the twilight how irresistible is the deep regret of his song. It is a song, sweet, tender, full of old memories, and brings back in its subtle melancholy, dear faces, and the touch of dear lost hands that helped and loved us once. The blackbird's note is quite different from the thrush; the thrush's song is all pure joy, and glad expectation. He sings of morning, and all his notes are in a major key. He chants of wholesome work, of brave endeavour, and of spring gladness. His rapture is like that of the early poets. No note of sorrow dulls his glorious morning. Joy, health, happiness, these are the keynotes of his rhapsody--and we are grateful to him as we are grateful for the sunshine, for the laughter of children, and for the scent of flowers. It is hard to say which song we love best. But why choose, for are not both God's feathered choristers, and their songs our earliest melodies of childhood? How feverishly busy everything was that morning, and how seriously all living things took the annual dawn of life. The birds on the lawns were pecking, pecking everywhere, finding food and seeking materials for the future homes of their young. [Illustration: _THE SOUTH WEST VIEW OF WENLOCK ABBEY. IN THE COUNTY OF SALOP._ _From Buck's View._ WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1731.] I stood quite still, against an ivied wall, and watched an old thrush bring up a fat snail in her beak. In a second she had cracked the shell upon a monastic stone, and was feasting greedily on the contents. When she had flown away, I examined the bits of broken shell, and discovered that they were of a dull brownish colour, and that the snail was one of the kind that the Clugniac monks are said to have brought with them from France, when Roger the great Earl of Montgomery, brought over his band of monks from La Charité sur Loire, and founded his monastery at Wenlock soon after the Conquest. In the fourteenth and fifteenth century snails of this kind, "Escargots" as they were then termed, and still are called in France, were constantly used as a remedy "for restoring a right motion of the heart, and for casting out melancholy." A cure, it is said, was also wrought by a "cunning jelly" made from them, and this was supposed to be "proper" food for those who "dwindered" or who were "subject to a weak, or queasy stomach." In the fourteenth century, I have been told, snails were sold at Bath and in other towns in the west, to such as had consumptive tendencies. Knowing this, and seeing how much escargots were used in the Middle Ages, not only as a delicacy by the monks and nobles, but also in medicine with herbs, presumably amongst the poor, it is curious now, the horror that exists at the thought of eating either snails or frogs. At first, when I gave some dinners to the very needy, they would hardly dare come for them, and declared that they were sure that in Auguste's ragouts there would be found some lurking, somewhere. "Us doesn't dare to search in the broth," one old man said, "for us doesn't know what low beasts, slugs, snails, tadpoles, and what not a foreigner mightn't mix in." But now happily they are reassured, and old Ged Bebb told me only last week, "That, for all that they war heathan (the cook men), the meat war good, and proper, and what Christian folks cud eat." [Sidenote: FLOWERS OF TWILIGHT] I passed into the old red-walled garden and stopped to admire the long line of brilliant yellow crocuses. They were all aglow in the brilliant sunlight, and stood drawn up like a regiment of soldiers in line. I stood entranced, for each soldier seemed to be holding a lamp, and in each lamp, or cup, the sun was reflected in a wonderful golden glory. It is hardly possible to exaggerate the beauty of golden crocuses in golden sunlight. They seem to fill the world with gladness and to be March's crowning glory. I stopped and looked at my clumps of crocuses, they were coming up gaily, but were yet hardly in blossom. Burbidge put in for me strong clumps of Sir Walter Scott, Rizzio, and of beautiful Mont Blanc. All these were pushing up bravely, out of their mother earth. In fact, they were bursting, as Bess calls it, to be out. A minute later, I turned to inspect my chionodoxas and scillas. A few were coming into bloom. Luciliae had several sprays of delicate china blue and white flowers, and coppery two-blade leaves, and a patch of blue _Scilla Sibirica_ had reared already a spray or two of gorgeous ultramarine blossoms; but it was still early in March, and that is the time of the promise of beautiful things, not yet the realization of Flora's _fête_. As I went by a bush of white Daphne, I heard that the bees had discovered this spring delight--they were buzzing quite fiercely round its tiny flowerets. What a perfume the Daphne has! What an enchantment of rich odours! The pink bush on the other side of the garden I noted would blossom shortly, but there is quite ten days' difference in the flowering of the two varieties. The white follows "on the feet of snow," as Burbidge expresses it, and the pink, "when the spring has come." Of daffodils there was no sign as yet, save the little hard green spikes, but the purple hellebores were proud in their sombre magnificence. These always seem to me flowers that might fitly have decked the brows of some great enchantress, Morgan le Fay, or the Lady of the Lake. They vary from green to darkest purple, and they seem hardly flowers of gaiety or morning, but rather the shadowy blooms of twilight. Unlike their sister, the beautiful _Helleborus niger_, they will not live, plucked, in water. When gathered, they fade almost instantaneously and hang their heads in spite of salt or charcoal being added to the water. I have heard it said that if the stalks be cunningly split first, before being put in water, that they will last some time; but I cannot say I have ever found this plan successful, and have come to the conclusion that if you want to see your purple hellebores in beauty, you must go into the garden to do so. Then, as I walked on, I noted that the white arabis was flowering in places. Such a dear, homely little flower as it is, much loved by the bees who had gathered to it like to a honey jar. As I stood watching "the little brown people," I heard the guttural click-click of the little common wren. What a tiny little bird she is, the Jenny Wren of the old nursery rhyme--"God Almighty's hen," some of the old folk still call her here. It is wonderful to think that so deep a note can come out of so small a body. Jenny hopped about from twig to twig, gaily enough, cocked her tail, and was, according to Burbidge, as "nimble as ninepence." [Sidenote: THE NEST IN THE KETTLE] Here in Shropshire, in spite of the superstition that she was under special Divine Providence, the wren was often hunted at Yule-tide. Gangs of boys used formerly to chase poor Jenny with sticks, in and out of hedgerows, and over banks and stones. Particularly did this ignoble sport take place on the sides of the Clee Hills, and on the flanks of the Wrekin. Now, happily, the time of persecution is past, and Jenny no longer suffers ill from the hands of men. Hopping fearlessly near me was the pet robin that I fed through the evil days of snow and frost. How gorgeous he looked, with his scarlet waistcoat, how sleek and plump; and how full and liquid was his great brown eye. I begged Burbidge to leave, as last year, the old iron kettle in the arbour of honeysuckle, where he and Madam had their nest and reared their offspring last spring. How tame she was, with her little breast of yellowish brown and her liquid great eyes that used to watch me so keenly when I looked down upon her in the kettle. How patiently she sat, and how sweetly he sang to her, amongst the blossoms, his whole throat moving with his trilling rapture. For two years he and "Madam Buttons" have built in the kettle and brought up their nestlings there, and preferred that site to a hole in bank or wall, branch of tree, or to the thick shelter of the yews. The robin is looked upon in Shropshire as a sacred bird. Folks here believe that some terrible calamity will surely overtake him who robs a nest or kills "God's cock." A poor woman once gravely told me that her little son's arm was withered, "be like," she considered, "that he had robbed a robin's nest." "Him who slays a robin, may look to his special damnation," an old man once said to me, who had seen what he termed a "gallous lad" throw a stone at one. "Why thee cannot be content to rob the other birds, and leave God Almighty's fowls alone, I canna' understand," was also an angry remark I once heard addressed by a mother to a seven-year-old lad, and the remark was followed by sharp correction with a hazel switch. The old fear of, and reverence for the robin comes doubtless from the legend that the robin pricked his breast against the nails of the cross, and ministered by song and devotion to the Divine Master in His agony, and thus gained for himself and for all his posterity the affection of God, and the gratitude of man. In the old miracle plays the robin was often spoken of as "God's bird," and this also may have gained for him the love of many generations. I passed out of the wrought-iron gates, and went into the meadows on the east side of the Abbey. The fields lay brown still, and were as bare as a billiard-table. They had been closely nipped by industrious sheep during long winter months, and now there was but little for the young life to feed on. Old, heavy, grey-faced ewes were bleating and baaing, whilst skipping, capering and leaping about were some eight or nine lambs. What jocund games theirs were, what heights they jumped, and with all four legs off the ground at once. As I looked, I wondered what were the rules of the game, and what impulse directed their sport; for there seemed to be a leader in the revels, who ran and skipped first, after which they all ran round, mounted an incline, descended and mounted it afresh, cutting a hundred capers, and playing a hundred pranks, but all according to some old unwritten law and regulation. After a few moments of watching the pretty little creatures, I made my way to the old embankment which runs across the meadows on the southern side, and which formed once the mighty dam of the artificial lake from which the prior of Wenlock drew up his fish in Lent and on special fast days. There probably during the Middle Ages the lake was well supplied with carp, eels, trout, and perch. Old Dame Juliana Berners, the prioress of Sopwell, near St. Albans, wrote much and praised warmly the pleasures of angling. "If the sport fail," she wrote, "at least the angler hath his holsom walke, and may enjoy at his ease the ayre and swete savoure of the medes of floures that maketh him hungry and he may hear also the melodious harmony of fowles." She then goes on to say that he can see also, thus happily employed, "the wild broods of young swannes, heerons, duckes, cotes and all other fowles," and declares that a silent walk by stream or lake in her eyes confers a greater and deeper happiness upon the angler "than all the noyse of hounds," than "the blasts of hornes," or "the wilde scrye that hunters of fawkeners can make." I like to think of the holy brothers fishing here in their hours of recreation, after their vigils, fasts, and prayers. As I walked along I saw the group of willows that had turned crimson and brilliant amber, and far away I heard the cawing of the rooks as they flew over the plantation of poplars, which, too, were turning red. I followed along the Abbot's Walk, as the townspeople term the dam, and then passed through a hunting gate across a wild field of scrubby bushes and rough herbage where the wild plover was uttering her melancholy cry and wheeled in circles overhead. The mole-catcher had been at work, a string of velvety moles hung like grapes upon a thorn. Some years ago, "the ount catcher," as he is called here, old Peter Purslowe, appeared in a moleskin waistcoat. Since then, however, he has never worn another. "The missus," I was told, "found it too weedy a job ever to make a second, although it furnishes well, but it had more stitches than ever there be stones at the Abbey." [Sidenote: THE RETURN OF THE ROOKS] I approached the rookery; what a babel greeted my ears, yet if you have ever listened carefully you will perceive that each rook has a different note of voice, and I suspect, if you knew rooks individually, you would notice, like in the songs of canaries, that no two rooks ever caw precisely alike. What a wonderful thing it is, the return of the rooks to any given place. For months they had been absent from this spot, gone nobody knows where. Not a sign of them. And then, almost to a day, they reappeared, and claimed their own tree and branch; and each pair, I fancy, went back to the site of its former nest. Curious stories are told of the sagacity of rooks, of their self-government, and of how offenders who have disobeyed some common law have been executed before large numbers, evidently as a judgment, and as a warning to others. As I watched them, a story bearing out the truth of this statement came back to me. In the rookery of a friend there was hatched, I was told, a rook with white wings. The community did not make any objection to the youngster being reared there; but when, the following year, the white-winged bird returned to an old avenue of elms, where he had been hatched, exception was taken to his desire to nest there. It seemed, said my friend, as if a congress was called, and as if the strangely marked rook and his mate were given the option to fly elsewhere, or receive some dire punishment; for at intervals they were chased away, but kept on returning to the same spot. All day, rooks seemed, said my informant, to flock to the avenue, till the air seemed almost black with them. They flew, cawed wildly, and seemed in a highly excited state. This went on hour after hour, without any apparent change; until at last one old bird descended from the branch on which he had been perched, and standing on the grass, flapped his wings slowly, uttering a strange, low, mysterious cry, more like the husky croaking of a carrion crow than the cawing of a rook. In a moment the whole grove, said my informant, resounded with the cries of the rooks, and one and all simultaneously fell upon the unfortunate bird with the white wings, screaming and cawing, and never rested until they had pecked him to death, and torn almost every feather out of his helpless body. I recalled this curious story, and then watched the birds as they flew round, finding sticks for their nests. Ash sticks seemed to be their favourite material, or twigs from the great wych-elm a field away. The rooks seemed, to quote a boyish expression, "to build fair," quite different from the mischievous jackdaws, "who will allus rather thieve than work," as an old keeper once said to me. It is curious how rooks change their food during the different months of the year. They feed their young almost entirely on animal food till they leave the nest. As a rule, they give the young rooks, grubs, worms and cockchafers; but during the very dry summers that closed the nineteenth century, being short of insect food, the old birds took to robbing hen-coops, and fell also upon young pheasants and partridges in the grass. Several keepers have told me that they were obliged to destroy whole rookeries on this account, for when a rook once takes to chickens or pheasants, like a man-eating tiger, he will never return to humbler diet. It is wonderful how tenacious rooks are, of returning year after year to the same place, and how difficult it is for any one to start a new colony. Nests may be put up, and young birds partially tamed, but it is a hard matter, as a gardener once said to me, "to 'tice the rooks against their will; 'tis like callin' the wild geese, unless they wish to hear." [Sidenote: ROOKS LEAVE FOR A DEATH] In the South there is a strong belief that when the rooks abandon a rookery some misfortune will happen to the owner. At Chilton Candover it is said, there was much excitement because the rooks in Lady Ashburton's park unaccountably forsook their nests. Almost immediately afterwards occurred Lady Ashburton's death, and many stories of a similar character are told. As I leant over the fence, watching what was going on in the rookery, I heard a strange low cry in the distance, as of something unearthly and eërie--what Bess once said sounded like the "call-note of a witch." I remarked in the great black bird that came overhead, a different flight, slower and heavier than that of a rook, and I recognized in the bird approaching a carrion crow. I stood motionless. The rooks were too much occupied with their building operations to notice the enemy, but the peewits, who lay earlier in the meadow beyond, were calling uneasily, uttering that strange cry of alarm which is their special note of warning. On flew the carrion crow, the bird of ill-omen in the old ballads and a messenger of death according to old belief. Anyway, if not quite so evil as he has been represented, the crow is a bird that does great damage to keepers and farmers and has few friends. As he flew away, I heard at regular intervals, his creepy wicked cry. Old Shropshire folks still repeat to their grandchildren, when they see a carrion crow-- "Dead 'orse, dead 'orse, Where? Where? Prolly Moor. Prolly Moor. We'll come, we'll come. There's nought but bones." In old days, Shropshire children used to imagine that carrion crows flew off at night to Prolly Moor, there to roost. Prolly Moor is a great tract of wild land that lies at the foot of the Longmynd, and is said to be the sleeping-ground of crows and the place where witches hold midnight revels. I kept my eyes on the bird, and saw him sail away, skirting in his flight the old town, and at last I noted that he flew over the top of the Edge, at the back of Wenlock Town. [Sidenote: LIFE IS A DREAM] As I retraced my steps homewards, I was greeted by the soft music of the chimes. How prettily they sounded across the meadows; "Life is a dream, life is a dream," they seemed to say; yet for all their dreamy sound I remembered that they are calling out the hour of nine, and in spite of the joy of spring, the cry of birds, and the charm of beast and flower, I hurried up the stairs to the east garden and regained the house. On the threshold of the east entrance to the Abbey I met Bess. "Mama," she said reprovingly, "where have you been? Your breakfast is getting cold, and it is to-day, to-day I tell you." The last part of Bess's speech referred to the gift--the present of all the presents, as my little girl called it--which was to arrive; in other words, to the pug puppy. "Listen, mama," she cried, "it is to come by the train this afternoon; and Mamie has sent me a ribbon, all blue," and my little girl showed me a ribbon and a letter announcing the fact in a childish round hand. "Pups," continued Bess, gravely, "cannot be dressed in anything but blue. Then there is the day-bed to discuss, his saucer and his supper plate--mamsie, there is a great deal to do," and Bess hurried me upstairs to see the preparations. We found together a white saucer, and Bess looked forward to washing it. But Nan said severely, "Best let Liza, she understands such things." And I feared, from the pursed-down corners of Nan's mouth, poor master pug would get but a scant welcome. Bess noticed the expression on old Nana's face and whispered, "Specs God never gave Nan a dog-brother in all her life." Nan sat on stitching as if nothing could move her from her seat, as she always does in moments of irritation, and I must agree with Bess, that she was neither kind nor helpful in her preparations for the arrival of Prince Charming, as we christened our expected visitor. As we left the room, Nan lifted her eyes from her work, and said severely, "Might be a baby, I'm sure." We both felt rather chilled at this, and Bess took my hand, and, while she jumped down two steps at a time, asked if I didn't think my own bedroom would be better for the Prince than hers. "One dog more, mamsie," she urged, "couldn't make much difference. Where there's place for Mouse, mams, I am sure there is place for a pup." "But supposing Mouse objected?" I said. "What a big mouth she has, and what sharp teeth, and what a poor little thing the Prince would be in her jaws! Besides," I asserted, "I must introduce them carefully; what if our old friend should be jealous or 'unsympathetic' like another old friend?" "Whatever Mouse may be, she can never," declared Bess, "be real cross, like a real live woman. Dogs aren't made that way." And so that part of the subject dropped. [Sidenote: PRINCE CHARMING IS COME] I went down to breakfast, and Bess sat by me talking twelve by the dozen; her whole soul was engrossed as to where the Prince's day-basket was to be kept, and whether the miniature blanket was to be tucked round his infinitesimal serene highness--or not. As I got up from my breakfast, I saw to my dismay that the post had brought me, what a friend calls, "an avenging pile of letters." How many hours' writing they meant, and other people's work! Bess standing by cried, "I wish they were all mine, I never get letters except on my birthday, and at Christmas." "And never have to answer them," I said. "Ah, my dear, when one grows up, letters mean other things besides invitations and presents. They can mean requests, bothers, worries, other people's work--and are always sharp scissors for cutting up leisure, and preventing happy hours in the garden or with one's embroidery." "I shouldn't have them, then," retorted Bess, stolidly. "What would you do?" "Burn them and see what happened." I looked at Bess and laughed. After all, the idea may be more "Philosophe qu'on ne pense." But I was not strong enough to carry her suggestion into action, so I kissed Bess, told her I could not carry out her plan, and said I must write all the morning, but hoped by industry to save the afternoon for myself, and to spend it as I wished. At last all the letters were answered--invitations, requests, permissions, "characters," money sent to charities, and a great packet was assembled in the letter-box--then when the last was finished, I called to Mouse, and we wandered out together into the garden. I felt that I had earned the pleasure of a free time amid my birds and flowers. I walked along the kitchen garden path and paused to enjoy that most excellent and wholesome of all good smells, the odour of newly upturned earth. To the south is a hedge of thorn some four feet high, and facing the same direction is a high wall where apricots, peaches and pears are trained. The pears were all in blossom in dense sheets of snow, and only tips of green were visible here and there. To save the blooms from the frost, Burbidge had put some tiffany in front of the trees, and fixed down the coarse muslin-like stuff by laths of wood. There were also cordons of pears running athwart the wall, and over these to protect them he had put fir branches. These pears are of the magnificent early dessert sorts such as Clapp's Favourite, Williams' Bon Chrétien, Souvenir de Congrès, and beside these we have the earliest variety of all, the delicious little Citron des Carmês, which often yields a dish of pears the first week in August, before, so to speak, one has begun to realize that summer is fleeting. On entering our little kitchen garden, there is a hedge of roses on each side trained against some iron rails. On one side ramps the delightful Gloire de Dijon roses with all its many tinted blossoms of orange, creamy white, and buff shades; on the other, is a hedge of the superb old General Jacqueminot. The General is a magnificent summer blossomer, he flowers in June even in Shropshire, and his flowers are of the richest, fullest, crimson, and of delicious sweetness--not as large as many of the new hybrid perpetual sorts, but General Jacqueminot's rich red is of extreme beauty, and whatsoever the season he always blossoms, and the scent is one of the sweetest known. Then I paused to stop at my bed of Ranunculi, a flower which once was held in great favour by English gardeners, but which now seldom finds a place in English _parterres_. Nothing could be seen but a few little curly leaves like sprouting parsley, but later I hoped for and expected a glory of colour. I grow all colours, crimson, vermilion, salmon, pink, fawn, cherry and black, and some are of the darkest shade of sumptuous orange. [Sidenote: THE VISIT TO CLUN] These flowers are often found in old Italian Church work, and I have read they were brought to Venice by the Moors, and so introduced into Italy. I found Burbidge waiting for me as I came up to him. He said he was pleased to see me. I had not seen the old man in the garden for some weeks. He had been ill since his visit to Clun, and I had only seen him in bed, and then in the presence of his old wife Hester--an austere middle-aged woman "given to chapel ways," as Burbidge expresses it, so I had heard nothing fresh of Benjamin or of his granddaughter Sal. After we had settled the kinds of dahlias, and how best to sow the sweet-peas, which last were to be sown in separate groups in lines, I called my old gardener aside, away from "his boys" as he calls them, although Roderick Pugh and Absolom Preece are middle-aged men, and asked him in a whisper about his visit to Clun. "Was your brother better?" I asked. "Anyway, tell me about them all." "Dahlias first," said Burbidge shortly, and touched his hat. And I felt there was not a moment to be wasted, so we looked out a plot of ground that was suitable to receive all the tubers, and then at last I got him away, and to speak about his visit to his brother. Poor Sal---- At first my old friend would not answer my questions, and only looked grave, and shook his head. But at last he yielded to my entreaties, and after calling out to his boys to attend to their business and to do some "job" in the far distance, he followed me into a secluded path. "I would not for ever so much as them boys should hear," he began. "It might clean scare they, and make 'em feckless about their spring digging and fettling; but as yer have asked me, I'll make a clean breast of the business. I looked in at the show, but," Burbidge declared scornfully, "it warn't nothing better than I've seen scores of times in my own apple-room; and as to the crocuses, hellebores and scillas, they wern't nothing but what us has, and better." My old friend always enjoys speaking disparagingly of shows and exhibitions, whatever he really thinks, for even gardeners are not without some particle of envy, I shrewdly suspect. "Well," continued Burbidge, "after business," and I knew business meant something connected with the garden, "I went on to Clun, and there was a deal of getting to get to Clun--stopping, waiting, and misinforming, but at last the job got done. When yer wants, yer gets, as Humphrey Kynaston said when he made the leap." "Yes, Burbidge, but how about your brother?" I said, trying to make him keep to his point. "I found him and Sal," answered Burbidge, "strange as bats in sunlight. They were both overlooked, sure enough. Dazed and dimmy, same as if they had been bashed and bummelled for a whole live-long week." "What did you do?" I inquired. [Sidenote: I KNOW OF A CHARM] "I just spoke," was his reply. "But I couldn't get no answer. One and t'other, they looked like cats as had been fair nicked by a blacksmith's dog, and they youped and trembled whensoever I spoke--and wouldn't answer, more than bats in a rick-yard. As to Sal, I couldn't get nothing out of she, save that a white dove had flown again her bedroom winder, and had called out, 'Come, spirit, come;' and as to brother Benjamin, he nodded and spoke Dutch, he war that mazed and foolish, and while he war taking on like, who should step inside but his son Frank. And Frank he come in bold as a lion, and trim as a dandy with a bobbish tie, and he said, 'Here be Malachi, him as was born under this roof when my missus war took worse all of a sudden. He be a tall young fellow, hale, hearty, and fresh as a May sprig. He have joined the volunteers, and has at home his uniform, which be next best to a general's.' And when brother Ben heard him, he fair burst out in a rage. 'What matters it,' he saith, 'what generals, or kings, or thy sons clothe themselves in, or who has beef or beer when _I_ sits in mortal fear;' and he shivered and quailed same as a poor body in a Poorhouse as hasn't nought of his own, not so much as his own pipe or the shirt to his back. And while father and son were talking, Malachi he comed up, and he said, smiling like an April day, 'Never you fear, grandad, for all I'm young, I know of a charm as 'ull free you from all her hanky-panky ways.' And then, without a word from his grandad, he kind of touched his stick as if he war touchin' a pretty wench as he war keeping company with, and he started whistlin' an old tune, and he called out over his shoulder, 'I'll cure ye,' and laughed as one who has a joke all to hisself, and so out went Malachi. "Then there was quiet for a bit, and I heard naught but a crying of the wind outside; but suddenly voices got introduced, and we heard a crying and a calling and a scuffling in the garden, or thereabouts, loud as the cry of the Seven Whistlers; and I sat quiet till I could stand no more, then I peered out, and there, sure enough, war Malachi and the witch. "And Malachi, he called out, 'Down on yer knees, yer old hathan, or I'll beat yer--old witch as yer call yerself--black and blue if yer don't stir yer old tongue and say arter me, "I hain't got no magic, nor no charms neither, I be a born fool, and I swear I'll leave Benjamin Burbidge and his granddaughter for ever more alone."' "And the witch," continued old Thomas, "her did swear it. 'So help me God, I will,' her cried out; and her spoke as true as Gospel truth, for I think her meant it, for as Malachi said, 'tis wonderful, even with a witch, the magic of a stout ash-plant." Burbidge's words still rung in my ears when running up the garden path I saw my little maiden approaching me. "We shall be late," she cried excitedly, "if you don't come at once--at once, I say. And think what a terrible thing it would be to keep Prince Charming waiting." I nodded to Burbidge and started off with Bess at a brisk trot up the front drive, mounted the field that led to the station, and waited panting on the platform for the little dog. To my surprise Bess had a cloak on her arm. "You are not cold, child?" I asked. "No, no, mum; but what if the pug was to catch cold?" "We must hope not, for that would be a calamity," I answered. Bess skipped and danced up and down, clinging to my hand, jumping and swaying backwards and forwards, as if her little body were made of quicksilver. Then, after a while, she suddenly fell into a reflective mood, and asked what are the best ways of forgetting that you are waiting? "To think of something else, or not to want so badly," I answered. "I couldn't do that," answered Bess, gravely, "because I shouldn't be me if I did, and he couldn't be Prince Charming if I didn't want him. I feel," she gasped, "as if I just want, want till I am dying of wanting." I looked at my little girl. "Suppose he didn't come by this train, what would you do then?" "I don't know. Go to bed, I think, and cry." [Sidenote: THE PRINCE ARRIVES] But happily there was no need of so sad an ending to a bright spring day, for as I spoke the train rushed in. The porter hurried forward, and there was a general commotion. Two passengers got out, a couple of old fowls were removed, and a second later, a little basket also was taken out of the luggage-van. "Shall I have this sent to the Abbey?" inquired the station-master. But Bess would not hear of so slow a manner of getting the pug-puppy down. In delirious joy the little mantle was flung on the ground and her arms were tightly clasped round the basket. When one has been sent a pug-pup there is only one place to go to--home. So I picked up the mantle, and Bess, bearing her cherished possession, led the way. Then there was tea, which, as we have no bells, Bess saw to herself. I heard her in the passage giving a hundred contradictory orders. It is to come at once, and then, there's to be broth for the puppy and cakes, "sponge and the other, and meat," and at last she returned breathless to me. "I have ordered everything," she cried, and took the little dog off my knee. It was a sweet little baby dog with a crinkly-crankly black phiz and dear little blinking, cloudy blue eyes. The ribbon that was sent to adorn his neck was much too big to fasten round his throat, but he looked contented and rested drowsily under Bess's continued protestations of affection. After tea we sat on before the chapel hall fire. "I thought last Christmas," said Bess, "when I had the white bride doll, that I never should want nothing no more. But now that I have the pug Prince, I know I shall never want anything again, not if I live to be a hundred." "Wait till the next time," I laughed. At that moment I heard a scratching at the study door, which opens upon the chapel hall. I opened it and took Mouse gently by the collar. "Bess," I said, while I held on tightly, "the introduction must be made, but with tact," and I and Mouse returned together. I put the puppy on the rug. Mouse looked at it sadly and then walked severely away. "Why does she behave like that?" asked Bess. "See, Mouse is whining and wants to go out." "She is jealous," I said. "Why should she mind?" "Think, Bess," I replied, "what would you say if there came here a new baby, a new helpless little thing. Might it not be just a little bit of a trial to you, don't you think, when you saw all the world running about to welcome it, cake, tea, milk, cream, all ordered for it at once? We none of us like being put in the shade, not even Mouse." Bess looked at me, and then putting the pug down, she cast her arms effusively round the great hound's neck. "You must forgive my little pup," she said coaxingly, "and not hate presents, even if they are for other people," and a shower of kisses followed. [Illustration: "MOUSE" AT HOME.] [Illustration: "MOUSE" ON A VISIT. _Photos by Miss Gaskell._] Mouse was mollified; she looked at me gravely. He has not the first place, she seemed to say, and she came and laid her great head solemnly on my knees. "She knows," said Bess, "that not even Prince Charming can put her nose out of joint." Mouse watched the little pug out of the corner of her eye, but with more sadness than malice. Bess fed her with slices of cake, whilst the pug approached her future gigantic companion. "All friends now," Bess whispered. "Nobody now to get nice but Nana; but nurses always take longer to forgive than dogs." [Sidenote: NANA IS KIND] In the evening I stole upstairs and found Prince Charming sleeping in his little basket by Bess's bed. Apparently old Nana had yielded to his charms, or else was reconciled to his having a nursery existence. She got up from her sewing and said with a smile on her good old face, "Bless her little heart, how it do please her, the pup; but then she must have what she has a mind to." After this, I had a quiet hour with my books, and I took down for the last half-hour a volume of Montaigne. What delightful company he is, always bright and cheery, full of knowledge, and yet always so human. I came to the passage which Madame de Sévigné always said brought tears to her eyes. I refer to the "affection of the Mareschal de Montluc for his son who died in the island of Madeira." "My poor boy," wrote the Mareschal, "never saw me with other than a stern and disdainful countenance, and now he is gone in the belief that I neither knew how to love him, nor esteemed him according to his deserts," and the remorse and pity of it all. In the silence of the night it all came home to me. What a touching picture it is, the reserved old man with no word of love on his tongue, and yet his heart full of affection. "For whom," cries the grief-stricken old man, "did I reserve the discovery of that singular affection that I had for him in my soul?" What a pathetic tale it is, one of Montaigne's many. What a homely tongue the great essayist has, and yet what a wise one--possessing, as he does, the art of telling us all the old tales of Greece and Rome clothed in summer verdure, so that the leaves of his discourse never grow stale or faded. He makes the ancient world live again, and gives men and women who lived and died hundreds of years before he was born new life and beauty. "Oh, do not let us love in vain. Let us find out our love before the wave has gone over the dear one's head," is what I seemed to hear. "Do not let our lips call in the coming time, 'Lord, too late, too late!'" I thought of little Bess, the happy owner of her dog, and I said, at least, Lord, my little maid will look back on her childhood, I hope, as a happy, happy time, a time of flowers, and joyous play. Bad times must come, but let me be a happy parent in that I have given my child no more unhappy time than I could help! The next morning. I sauntered off into the garden. There were the gladioli to plant, so that they might blossom well before the autumn frosts. [Sidenote: FLOWERS IN A GARDEN] First of all, come the beautiful early summer sorts such as the delicate Bride, Leonora, Mathilde, and Colvilli, and then in autumn the brilliant Brenchleyensis, Gandavensis, and exquisite soft tinted Lemoinei. Burbidge has a pocket-book in which the date of all plantings as well as sowings are registered. "Them gladiolouses," as he calls them, "war put in the 4th of March last year, so they this year must be put in their places without delay in the red-walled garden to enliven the borders, and there must be a large patch in the kitchen garden for pulling" (picking), for Burbidge, in common with most gardeners, cannot bear picking his blossoms in the real flower garden. Blows for the garden is the old man's constant adage, and he will sometimes say sourly, "What for do ladies want their places littered about with jars and tubs and what not, same as if their chambers was fresh-blown meads? Let 'em be, say I, where the hand of the Lord hath put 'em." And he will add, "growing blows is right, 'cause it is in the way of nature, but I don't hold to parlour bowers. They be unwholesome, not to say a bit retchy." I am inclined to agree with my old friend in some of his strictures about the modern drawing-room, for a room laden with scents, and that has closed windows, is certainly a productive source of headaches. As I stood by the garden watching Burbidge and his men plant the gladioli, a little figure dashed up to me. "Mama," cried Bess, in a state of wild excitement, "they've come, two real princes, I really do believe." I was puzzled for a moment, but at last I stammered out, "Where? Where?" "At the pond, at the pond," exclaimed Bess, trembling with delight. I could not get anything more out of Bess, but Burbidge, hearing her mention the pond, hobbled up. "Bless her little heart!" he said, "the little lady means the swans." And in answer to my inquiry, "What swans?" he answered-- "Didn't yer hear, mam, about the great birds? No?" Then he went on to tell me how, in the early morning, when he and the under-gardeners "war fettling up on the east side between six and seven, us suddenly heard a kind of unearthly crying, like some one moaning and sobbing, and whispering right up aloft. And then," continued my old friend, "I seed such a sight as I've never seen afore. Fowls as big as chest o' drawers flyin' round and round. They came on flying in great circles, as if they couldn't stop, till down they flumped like a couple of cannon balls, and struck slap into the great Abbey pool. "I did," pursued Burbidge, "tell Miss Célestine later to let yer know, seeing as you be interested in all fur and fluff, birds and insects, and most varmint, but her have no sense, save for frills and furbelows." On hearing of the arrival of the swans, I seized hold of Bess's hand, and off we went together to welcome our new visitors. They were beautiful white birds of spotless plumage, probably driven from the lake of Willey, or from further off, by the cruelty of their parents. For old swans become terribly fierce as the nesting season comes on, and will not even allow the offspring of a past spring to remain on their own waters. "How lovely they are," said Bess, enthusiastically. "It is a real fairy-story, mamsie, this time." [Sidenote: MOUSE FEEDS ON BREAD] Then we returned to the Abbey, and brought out a basket of broken scraps. Bess threw some pieces into the water, and the swans stooped down their beautiful graceful necks and fed with avidity. Bess watched them intently, whilst Mouse, who had followed us too, looked on superciliously; and then, with great greediness, ate all the bread that she could reach, so that, as Bess said, "too much food should not be wasted on mere swans." "Isn't she greedy?" cried Bess. "At home she hardly eats even cake!" Poor old Mouse! She is made up of unamiable vices, excepting to us. Then Nana appeared, and declared crossly that my little girl would catch her death of cold standing on the damp grass by the water. Bess fired up at this and retorted, "As if, Nana, people ever catch cold when they watch swans. Why, my mother watches birds hundreds of hours, and she never catches cold." But, in spite of Bess's protestations, my little maid was carried off by Nan, who, I heard, afterwards went off to the post-office to get a postal order. When Bess returned from her short turn, I noticed that she was grave and silent, and not at all the usual bouncing Bess of Wenlock, as we are wont to call her. I mentioned that I was going for a longer walk, in search of white violets, and begged her to come with me, if she was not too tired, and bring a basket in case we found any. At first I thought Bess's reluctance sprang from the fact that Prince Charming would have to be left at the Abbey, although I assured her that Auguste would fully console the Prince for our absence; but say what I would, Bess seemed out of spirits. And so, before we started, I sat down on a bench and asked my little girl, who looked worried, if she was not feeling well. "Yes," answered Bess, "only, only----" And then I found out the truth. "When Nan and I were walking in the town," Bess explained, "Mr. James, Hals' father's coachman, came into the chemist's shop and told us that Fräulein was dreadful bad, tumbled down and broke her leg, he said. He laughed and said it was a judgment for being _that nasty_ to Master Harry. But oh, mama, could it--could it really be?" "No, Bess," I answered quickly, "don't think that for a moment. You were very naughty, and very silly, but then you are only a little child, and you did not know what you said, or understood what you meant. Beside," I said rather grandly, to get over the difficulty, "God has other work than to attend to the idle words of a little child. So dry your eyes, dear, and be a happy little person again. Run upstairs and fetch a basket, and we will go off together." But Bess shook her head. "I will be a happy little girl," she said, "but I'd rather not go all the same," and she left me. So I started off alone with Mouse, who, nothing loth, followed me gladly on my expedition. We all have favourite flowers, or imagine that we have, probably owing to some early association or to some tender recollection. Queen Bess is said to have best loved meadow-sweet, with which her chambers were strewn. The great Condé, they say, was devoted to pinks; and Marie Antoinette is said to have loved sweet rocket, bunches of which were brought her by Madame Richard to the Temple. I called to mind these favourite blossoms, but my floral love is not of the garden, it has no place in tended borders. I love it even better than the choicest rose, or the most brilliant gladiolus, or the most stately lily. It grows amongst the hedgerows of Shropshire, and is known as the wild white violet. [Sidenote: THE FLOWERS OF SPRING] Its scent is sweet but often elusive, and as evanescent as a beautiful smile. Our highly cultivated borders and _parterres_ are beautiful, but our wild carpets in field and wood more beautiful. Wild flowers come amidst the grass, and blossom at their own sweet will in their own sweet place, and the moor, meadow, or coppice make the most enchanting background for their loveliness. I wandered along the green paths with hedgerows starting into life, and came to the conclusion that the flowers we each love best are the homely flowers of childhood that we played by, and plucked as children. The dog-rose, the violet, or the primrose, whose leaves we know the inside and the outside of, whose stalks we have handled a hundred times, and whose scents recall dear faces, and gentle memories, that go back to long ago. I walked along, Mouse following dutifully behind me. The hedgerows were full of green curls and twists, groups of wild arums glittered on the banks below hazel and quickset hedges. Here and there little patches of grass had burst into emerald green, and a few daisies were turning their discs to heaven, whilst in sheltered spots dim primroses were dawning shyly on the world, filling the atmosphere with sweet dalliance and dreaminess. Once, as I wandered along, I saw behind a cottage in a lane a mauve carpet of periwinkles, and once, beneath a chestnut, I saw the glitter of golden king-cups, that Wordsworth loved so well. The afternoon was very fair, purple and golden lights flitted round the hills and rested on the freshly ploughed hillsides; "longer days and sunshine," the thrushes seemed to sing, and I heard them piping exultantly in every orchard as I passed. I went by the Red Marsh Farm, past the old mullion-windowed barn, which is said to have been a chapel in monkish days, and so across the close-nipped fields to Sherlot Forest. I walked by a patch of gorse all ablaze with golden blossoms. Tiny young rabbits dashed under cover, showing their white scuts. My great hound lumbered after them like a luggage train in mad career; but nothing happened--they vanished like lightning, and Mouse joined me panting at the hunting gate below. As I whistled her into heel, I noticed that the honeysuckles in the hedgerow were clothing themselves in silvery green, and that a willow by a pool was bursting into golden glory. The earth was dry and I could not resist sitting down for a moment. A squirrel dashed up an oak and scolded and chattered, Mouse, seeing him, growled angrily; a greenfinch flew from out of a thicket, giving me a beautiful vision of apple-green wings; whilst in the distance I heard, far off, the note of a distant blackbird singing a song of regret and tender longing. How enchantingly lovely all was, and on all sides no sounds but country ones. I peeped over the hedge, men were ploughing and sowing the grain, and away to the west I heard a boy whistling a few notes of a half-forgotten tune. What was the tune, I wondered. How few folks whistle or sing now; the time was when everybody "sang a bit," as Burbidge calls it, to their work--men in the hayfields, women at the washtub. Was the world, when it sang at its work, a happier or jollier world? I asked myself. [Sidenote: "HEAVEN'S HIGH MESSENGER"] I passed over a stile and walked across a clover field. How prosperous it looked, how green after the seared and sad appearance of permanent pasture, which still lay brown and lifeless. Overhead the bravest of all West-country songsters was singing--the skylark. What a speck he appeared throbbing in the sky, only a little dot hardly bigger than a pin's head; but what a voice he had, what a cry of exultant joy was his, what a melody of passion, what a glory of triumphant music! I stood and listened like the poet, and wondered how a bird could sing so; such joy, such passionate melody seemed superhuman, and how the notes were produced in the tiny throat was then and will always remain a mystery. He did not seem a living, breathing bird; only a voice--a voice of incarnate joy and gladness. Silver hammers seemed to throb within him and to beat out a prayer of ecstatic joy, which no heart could measure, and no human tongue pronounce. Then suddenly, as a leaf, he fell, and the exquisite singer of a moment before became again only the little brown bird, a dweller amongst green fields, and a familiar of everyday life. Yet for all that we, too, dwell on earth and toil and spin, it is well to have heard the music of heaven. I walked along refreshed and gladdened, for in spite of the shadows that envelope us, "there burns in each an invisible sun," and amid such scenes it is impossible not to feel a passing ray. At last I reached the well-known bank. A few shy violets were in blossom--the afternoon sun was playing upon the opening blossoms. I picked two or three tiny flowers, but only a few, for I like to leave a spot as fair as I found it, and the little petals were still tightly curled. Growing close to the violet was another charming woodland flower, the wood-sorrel, or witches' cheeses as village children often call it here. The little blossoms were of an exquisite translucent white, with delicate lavender veins, and strange triangular leaves that folded up at night like the leaves of a sensitive plant. Some people say that the wood-sorrel is the true shamrock used by St. Patrick to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity. Be this as it may, it is a delightful little plant, and one of the most charming inhabitants of our English woods. Its veined delicate petals recalled to me the form and beauty of the exquisite grass of Parnassus, which I have often discovered on the moors of the west coast of Scotland and in a few spots in the wildest parts of the Shropshire hills. A little further on, I came to a patch under a hazel tree of bronze leaves. These I recognized to be the leaves of the ground ivy, and its minute mauve blossoms were just coming into blossom. This plant used to be called ales-hoof, and was formerly put into beer as a flavouring, much in the same manner as we put borage now into claret cup, or introduce into badminton a peach, or a spray of nettles. From the ground ivy an excellent tea can be made which possesses purifying qualities for the blood, and which was formerly much used in Shropshire as a spring tonic. Tea from a decoction of nettles is also constantly drunk in Shropshire, as is also a drink made from wild mallows. [Sidenote: THE BREATH OF SPRING] As I retraced my steps the light was fast fading, and the gold turning into lavender. All was dying, the reds and golds turning into sombre browns and greys. Flowers were falling asleep, and far away I saw a line of cattle gently driven to some far farm-steading. As I walked across the meadows, I noted that the little lambs had crept to their dams' sides, and meant to remain there quiet and snug till the small hours of the morning. Alone in the dusk I caught here and there the triumphant song of the throstle; all else was still. In the gloaming I saw dimly brown figures crossing upland and valley to the lonely hamlets that nestled amongst a starry mist of damson groves. The bright March day of work and gaiety was over. Frost might visit the earth in the night, but to-morrow, judging by the red sunset, would be another day of gladness and hope and brightness. I told myself spring had come, and that soon all our dear feathered friends would return. The nightingales would sing in the south, in every hazel coppice, and in the dusky groves of twilight, whilst all over England swallows would fly, near smoky towns and over lonely meres and rivers alike, carrying the message that sovereign summer was at hand. When I returned to the Abbey, I found that Bess was in bed. "She be asleep," nurse said, "but she seemed wonderful busy about something, all in a flurry like, and didn't take no notice, not even of the pug; but her would say her prayers twice over. And when I asked why for? She answered it war best so, for the Lord somehow would make her happy, even if she had to pray twice over for a blessing." Then old Nana went on to say, "This afternoon, Miss Bess went out with Liza after you left, and as they comed in they was whispering together. I don't hold with slyness," and old Nana pursed up her mouth, and I felt, as the French say, that Liza would have at some future time a bad quarter of an hour, and that a storm was brewing in the domestic cup. I didn't, however, ask for an explanation, but waited for the morrow to reveal the acts of to-day. I walked downstairs and sat down before my writing-table, and wrote a long letter to a sister. What a comfortable relationship is that of a sister, a very armchair of affection, for with a sister no explanations are necessary. Then there is nothing too small to tell a sister. Worries, pleasures, little heartaches, all may find their way on paper, and not appear foolish or ill-placed. So I wrote away gaily, a little about flowers, books, garden, embroidery, cuisine, a little domestic worry, and I wound up with a quotation. As I was folding up my letter, I suddenly heard a knock at the door. "Come in," I cried, and I saw Liza at the door, candle in hand. "Miss Bess is all right?" "Oh yes, mam; but I thought I should like you to know----" Then Liza went on to say that nurse had taken on terribly, and was all of a stew because she had let Miss Bess spend her money as she had wished this afternoon. "Miss Bess," continued Eliza, "would have it so, and wouldn't take no refusal; and, as Mrs. Milner was out at tea with Mrs. Burbidge, I had to let the child do as she had a mind to." "Well, what happened?" "Oh, I hardly know," replied Eliza. "We went to ----" mentioning a shop--"but there Miss Bess wouldn't on no account that I or Mdlle. Célestine should come in. She called out, 'Stay outside till I have done.' So Mademoiselle and I we walked outside up and down till we was fit to drop, and then, I do assure you, mam," added Eliza, "I knew nothing till I saw Miss Bess come out with a small parcel, which she held very tight and wouldn't give up to nobody, and then I seed as it was directed in Mr. Burbidge's handwriting--that is to say, there was a label; and we sent off the package, and I paid twopence in stamps for doing so, but Miss Bess wouldn't tell me, ask her as much as I would, who it was for. Mademoiselle tried hard to make Miss Bess tell, but she couldn't get nothing out of her, although she caught hold of her; but Mr. James, the butcher's boy, coming up, Mademoiselle let Miss Bess be, and so we went home; and I didn't think much about it till I looked into Miss Bess's purse to-night to see what she had spent, and then I saw there wasn't one penny left, and she must, I fear, have spent it all on the packet. It's only right, mam, as you should know," pursued Liza, flushing crimson, "lest Mrs. Milner should say that I had taken some, for just now Mrs. Milner be quite furious, fussing round and saying that Miss Bess has been fair robbed." "Never mind," I said, "when I see Miss Bess in the morning I will go into the matter, and find out how she spent her money." I wondered, as I sat down and began to embroider after folding up my letter, what would be the explanation of the mystery. Probably, I said to myself, a little present to Harry, for Bess is a very generous little soul, and most of her pocket-money is spent in gifts. [Sidenote: NANA IS ANGRY] The next morning my old nurse, holding tightly Bess's hand, came downstairs just as I had finished breakfast. She looked, as Burbidge would say, "black as tempest," and I didn't envy Eliza's place in the nursery. "Miss Bess will tell you," she said, "and as for Liza, I think it a most disgraceful affair to have let the poor lamb spend her money as she and Mademoiselle did, and never so much as to turn their heads back. Pack of fools talkin' to passers-by whilst the poor child was bein' robbed. That's what I call 'em." "I wasn't," cried Bess, stoutly. "It was my own money and my own fault. I paid it all myself, and I won't tell nobody about it but mama." Old Nana took no notice of this outburst, and vowed that she would get the money back somehow, and let everybody know what she really thought of 'em. I said nothing, for the fat was in the fire, and the one thing that I am sure of was, that you couldn't change anybody's determination of over seventy; and what Nana determines to do, Nana will do, for all the king's horses and all the king's men. When Bess and I were alone, I turned to Bess. "Tell me, little girl," I said. Bess answered, "Oh, mama, I know it is all right. Nana's very old, but she couldn't get it out of me. I mean to tell nobody but you and Hals, for a secret is a secret." And she added irrelevantly, "I couldn't walk with you because I felt I must do it." "What, dear?" "_Making it up with God_," replied Bess, but quite reverently. "When I heard that Fräulein had broken her leg, I knew that something must be done, for, for all you said, mamsie, I couldn't help feeling that my curse might have done something; not," explained Bess, "exactly made Fräulein break her leg, but it might have made it easier for her to do so." "Yes, dear, but tell me what you did." "Oh, you know, mamsie," answered Bess. "I went off for a walk with Liza and Célestine, but first of all I slipped upstairs when nobody was looking and got my purse. I didn't quite know what I had, for I didn't stop to count the money inside, but there were three silver bits and four copper monies. "When I got into Mr. ----'s shop," pursued Bess, "I said I wanted something that would be a comfort to somebody who had broken their leg. And he said, 'Certainly, Miss, I have just what you want.' And he gave me a little leather case painted all over with pink and blue flowers, quite pretty, though not quite like any flowers that I know." "Yes, Bess," I said, and took little Bess's hand encouragingly. [Sidenote: A GIFT FROM BESS] "Well," said Bess, "I don't rightly understand monies, so I told Mr. ---- to take out what he wanted. But he said there wasn't quite enough; so I said I would bring the rest next Saturday, when I got paid up for my good-conduct marks, if it wasn't very much. And he said, 'Don't mention it, miss, only sixpence more.' "So, then," pursued Bess, "he did up the little packet, and if a shopman does not know what is good for a person with a broken leg, who should, I should like to know," and Bess looked round her triumphantly. Then my little maid went on to say, "I stuck on the label that Burbidge wrote for me, and that he did for me in the tool-house when we two were alone; but he put Miss, not Fräulein, as we neither of us knew how to spell it. But we wrote governess below, and Roderick, who, Burbidge says, is a scholar, put in '_her_ with the broken leg,' so they were sure to understand. And then Mr. ---- stuck it with his tongue--for it was all gummy--and I and he pressed it down tight, and then Liza and I carried it off to the post-office, and that is all." Then Bess added, with a catch in her throat, "I haven't been wicked this time. Nana says it's wicked to spend my money without telling you; but I say I must _pay off_ God, for I want to be happy as princes and princesses are happy in fairy-stories." Bess's attitude of mind was a little difficult to follow, as is often the case with children; but as I felt that the whole funny little business had sprung more from childish kindness than anything else, all I did was to kiss my little maid and say, "Fräulein will be pleased." Bess left me beaming. "My mama," I heard her say later to her old nurse, "says there is no harm in what I did; and that I may give cigarette-cases or whatever I like to governesses who break their legs." Two days later Miss Weldon received a letter from Fräulein Schlieman, returning the case, and saying with some asperity-- "I do not smoke, whatever they believe of German women in England." Bess, on receiving back her gift, was filled with indignation. "Why cannot governesses smoke?" she asked. "If I was a governess I should smoke to oblige." And then, in a fit of virtuous fury, she handed over the case to Burbidge, with the lofty command of "Smoke at once." Later on, my little daughter told me, "I couldn't help it if Fräulein didn't smoke." And then added, "Anyway, God knows I spent my money on her, and Burbidge says that's sure to count." CHAPTER IV _APRIL_ "Strowe me the ground with daffodoundilles And cowslips and king-cups, and loved lillies, The pretie pawnce, And the cheveraunce Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice." SPENSER, _Shepherd's Calendar_. A soft sweet day. A gentle rain had fallen all through the night, and the sense of spring was everywhere. Soft mellow sunshine flooded into the house. How the chestnut buds glistened in the sunlight, all damp, and sticky, and a few even had begun to uncurl. The almonds were out in sheets of rosy pink blossom. Bees were humming everywhere, and thrushes were piping their jubilant strains on every gnarled apple tree. I asked at breakfast for my little maid, but I was told that she was not yet down, and even our irreproachable butler Fremantle seemed almost inclined to laugh, if such a sedate and irreproachable person can descend to such levity, as he told me that Miss Bess, he feared, would be a little late that morning. I had, as it happened, many letters to answer, and so forgot to trouble about Bess, for I had heard her chirp like a bird between six and seven in the morning, and therefore was not anxious. I remembered now that Bess had been often up to tea at the Red House of late, and that when Constance and she had met, they had whispered much, and that Bess had often caught her hand and held it tightly before parting, and then bubbled over with happy laughter. Once, when I asked Bess the cause of all this mystery, she replied, "Only white secrets, mum," and Constance had laughed too, and repeated the child's words, "Only white secrets." Whilst I stuck down my letters, I recalled these little half-forgotten episodes, when suddenly the door was flung open with a bang, and Bess stood before me; but not my every-day little Bess in short petticoats, and white pinafore, and her locks hanging round her, with a mane like a Church Stretton pony's, but my little Bess clothed in a fancy-ball costume, in that of a diminutive jester of the fourteenth century, with cap and bells, in little yellow and pink tights with satin embroidered vest, and her luxuriant locks confined in a cap. She entered shaking her bells merrily, and as I started up in surprise, she exclaimed, "Don't say anything, mamsie, please don't. Wait till you have heard my verse, or you will spoil everything. Constance has learnt it me, and I have said it over and over again. You see it is All Fools' Day, and I must give you a surprise, for Nana says, a surprise is next best to a birthday." And then my little girl faced me, in the middle of the old chamber, with the great stone altar as a background, and piped aloud in her gay childish way. The old rhyme somewhat altered-- "When April her Folly's throne exalts, While Dob calls Nell, and laughs because she halts, While Nell meets Tom, and says he too must play, Then laughs in turn, and laughing runs away, Let us my muse thro' Folly's harvest range And glean some moral into Wisdom's grange." [Sidenote: AN APRIL FOOL] It is an old rhyme, and I am told that Constance had taught it to my little maid. I stood looking at my dear little fool, all blushes and sweet smiles. "Constance," continued Bess, "was sure it would make you laugh." And then, after a pause, she added, "I have not done yet. Listen; I know all the funny things, pit-pat. Miss Weldon may not find me clever, but Constance says I learnt at once what she taught me. You see, mum, it is all fun, and fun with Constance is better than boxes of sugar-plums;" and here my little lass began to cut a hundred capers, to jingle her bells, and to dance gaily, calling out, "There are heaps of funny things to do. I must send Burbidge on a sleeveless errand, tell Absalom to go for the map of the Undiscovered Islands, and send Célestine for pigeons' milk, and won't she be cross! Crabs won't be in it, no, not if they were steeped in vinegar for a month, Nana says." And away danced my little lass into the brilliant April sunshine. [Illustration: _Photo by Miss K. Wintour._ THE CHAPEL HALL.] I did not catch what she said to the old gardener outside, but I heard a deep roar of laughter from Burbidge, and a bass duet of guffaws, from Absalom and Roderick; and a minute later Burbidge entered from the garden and told me, his face beaming with honest pleasure, that "Miss Bess was the gayest little Folly that had ever come to Wenlock, and would surely make folks laugh like an ecall come what might." A few minutes later, and Bess flew off to her old nurse and to Auguste, and both I heard, by their shrill exclamations, affected to be overcome with laughter at her approach. Inside and outside, on this first of April, I heard sounds of merriment, as if a return to old customs had come back, and as if loud and jocund mirth had not died out of simple hearts. I thought of all the old games, plays, quips, and pranks, that the old walls of the Abbey Farmery must have heard and seen in the Middle Ages, for even the monks allowed times of folly and revelry, at Yule-tide and Candlemas, I have read; and on the first of April, All Fools' Day, many must have been the hearty laugh, and simple joke, that folks made and passed on each other in Wenlock town, and all over old England. I popped my letters into the box for post, and stepped out, as my task for the day was accomplished. The morning was enchantingly beautiful. "Old Adam" glistened beneath the sundial like a wondrous jewel, the eyes in his tail seemed of a hundred tints. He appeared, as Buffon said, "to combine all that delights the eye in the soft, and delicate tints of the finest flowers, all that dazzles it in the sparkling lustre of gems, and all that astonishes it, in the grand display of the rainbow." His tail appeared of a hundred tints, and the red gold of the featherlets round the eyes flashed as if illuminated by fire. His grey, subdued wives, walked meekly beside him, and cast upon him humble glances of admiration, while he strutted before them with the pride of a Scotch piper, and expanded his tail with a strange mechanical whirr, that recalled the winding-up of some rich, elaborate, modern toy. Down by the Abbey pond I saw the two swans swimming, but, every now and then, the male bird seemed almost to leap out of the water in the delight of spring, and beat the water with his great snowy wings as he drove across the glass-like expanse at a furious rate, making the little wavelets rise and fall and dance, in a crystal shimmer over reeds and grass. Suddenly a little moor-hen dipped and bobbed out of the reeds. With an angry cry, one of the swans went for her, and I thought, for a moment, the poor little bird must have fallen a victim to his murderous beak; but the little black bird, as Burbidge would have said, "was nimble as ninepence," and doubled, and dived, before her enemy could reach her. It was very good to be out. Life seemed enough. The island in the centre of the Abbot's pond had become a sheet of primroses, and looked as if it had been sown with stars; and as I stood in the garden, the scent of the crimson ribes reached me. What a rich perfume it was! and what a distance it carried. In the full sunshine it was almost like incense, swung before the high altar of some old-world cathedral. I wandered away into the red-walled garden. How busy Burbidge was! The fir branches and matting were to be taken down off the tea-roses, and away from the beautiful purple and lavender clematises, my autumn splendours. [Sidenote: WINTER COVERINGS REMOVED] Beautiful Mrs. George Jackman, that shone like a great full moon in the dusk on clear summer nights, was now to be allowed "to open out," as gardeners say, and the sun and soft winds were once more to play with her tender leaves, and delicate tendrils. Then the exquisite tea hybrid roses, such as Augustine Guinoiseau la France, and that richest of all the noisettes, William Allen Richardson, were to dispense with their protecting fir branches. The time had come for them to feel the joy of full sunlight again, and the tree peonies were no longer to be enveloped in tawny fern branches, or to lie smothered in litter. As I stood in the pathway, I heard Burbidge walking up and down the paths, giving orders in the Shropshire tongue that I love so well. A mantle of spring splendour had fallen upon all. Lines of yellow crocuses shone like threads of gold. Crown Imperials were opening their rich brown, metallic-looking blossoms. Pink and white daphne bushes perfumed the air, and I noted that a host of hungry bees were humming greedily round them. Chionodoxas of all shades, were looking enchantingly fair. The blue Sardensis was opening its petals, of the same wonderful sapphire-blue shade as the Alpine gentian. Then in blossom also I noted Chionodoxa Luciliæ, that had the delicacy and daintiness of a piece of china, and lovely Alleni, that recalled the beauty of a sunset sky when the gold is dying, and when celestial amber is dissolving and melting into exquisite tones of mauve and lavender. A little later, I found Burbidge hard at work pruning my great bed of hybrid teas, and hybrid perpetual roses, that I have planted with alternate rows of old Dutch and Darwin tulips, with English and Spanish irises, and with lines of grape and Botryoides hyacinths. "Us must get a bit of the bush off," said my old gardener, as he plied his pruning scissors. I begged him, however, not to cut my hybrid teas too hard, as now so many gardeners are inclined to do, for roses in Shropshire, it seemed to me, did not like too much of the knife, or of the French drastic treatment. "Let it be a rose _bush_ in England," I pleaded. "Right you are, ma'am," replied Burbidge, "for there's many as uses the knife as a child the whip. Most of the roses here be on their own roots, and so, healthy and abiding. Manetti stuff have blooms big as saucers the first year, but go out the next year like candles as the wind's overmastered. They be like most fandangles--no stay in them." [Sidenote: THE VERMILLION ROSE] So saying, my old friend plied his scissors vigorously, and the click, click, resounded all through the garden. Before I left the red-walled garden, I had a word with my old gardener about my hedge of Austrian briars. What a wonderful single rose it is, and the variety is very ancient. Parkinson mentions it in his "Theatre of Plants," and calls it "the vermilion rose of Austria." If we prune it this year, we shall get no flowers, I lamented, and I am always very loth to let the pruning shears work their will with my pet rose. Then I turned to my moss roses: pink, white, purple, and the most beautiful variety of all, the old crested. They were all big bushes and must be kept in shape, but should not be pruned in the ordinary sense. Besides these sorts already named, I grow in my garden the beautiful roses of Japan--the purple and white, and the semi-duplex kinds, all of which bear such superb hips in the autumn. I told Burbidge that we must net some of the bushes in autumn, and that I would try later and get some German recipes for making them into preserves. In Elizabethan days, I have read, "Cooks and their ladies did know how to prepare from hips many fine dishes for their tables." Burbidge scoffed at this notion. "Let the wild things be, marm," he said to me; and added, "I never heard of much that was good wild, but nuts." At this I laughed and replied, "Wait and see--and taste." Burbidge told me, that he proposed to carry out the bees in their little wooden houses next week. "Come next Thursday, bee operations should begin," my old friend assured me. Nine was the hour chosen, and, if fine, "us will have the masks, so that come a breakage the little brown folk can't come to us--and the vermin make sore flesh of us." To-day, as I went into the tool-house I heard the bees buzzing angrily, as if they could not keep quiet for anger. "To-morrow," Burbidge then informed me, he and the boys would paint all the "bees' homes over, save the lips, in different colours." These must, in his language, remain "simple;" but "come Thursday, us will take off the zinc stopper on each, and then the little brown uns can roam as they list." All last winter, since November, the bees had lived in the tool-house, and had been artificially fed for the last fortnight, so that, to use my old friend's words, "they be fair nasty with temper, and buzzin' like an organ on fire." And now nothing remained but for Auguste, as he always did, to make them one last meal of burnt sugar, and solemnly to "inviter ces messieurs à faire leur miel." Their appointed time of liberty was at hand, and in a few days the little brown folk would fly into the sunshine with pæans of joy. I went into the tool-house with Burbidge. Burbidge is a man of order. Every night he makes "his boys" hang up the tools, after cleaning them with care. Those not in use shine brightly against the wall. Every night they are rubbed clean with a rag steeped in oil. Great strings of onions hung from the massive oak beams. During bad days in winter, when the snow lay on the ground, Burbidge and his men mended the fruit nets, painted the water-cans a brilliant red, or green, made wooden labels, and got ready, as they called it, "for the comin' of summer." There, along one side, were the beehives, some eight in all--all to be painted in different colours. Burbidge holds the view that no two should be painted the same colour, so that each hive, as he calls it, "should drop on their own colour sharp." What truth there may be in this idea I cannot say, but I was delighted to oblige my old friend in this respect, for I, too, like bright colours in a garden. Burbidge took out of an oak locker his colour board for the year. "I know, marm, as yer be tasty with a needle," he said, "and I'll leave it to you to say what pleases you and the brown folk most." I suggested shades of blue, and told him of the Scotch belief that bees of all colours love blue best. But Burbidge would not admit this. "I never heard _that_ in Shropshire," he said stoutly. "Don't believe it, nor a letter of it. Orange or purple, I believe, be every bit as good as blue." Then I asked Burbidge about the old Shropshire bees that learned folks in bee-lore have told me were descended from the old wild bees that the British had, and of which there are still swarms in straw skeps in far-away farmhouses nestling against the Clee. But about these wild bees Burbidge knew nothing, but only felt certain that anything "as be Shropshire born be bound to be good." Then I chose the colours--red, flame, crimson, salmon, mauve, pink, the delicate shade of the autumn crocus, jonquil yellow, and one or two shades of blue--and particularly the dear old-fashioned bleu de Marie that one meets in an Italian sky, as beautiful in its way as the breast of "old Adam" (the peacock) against a yew hedge on a fine March morning in full sunlight. It was a lovely spring morning on that Thursday, the appointed day for the removal of the bees to summer quarters. [Sidenote: MOONLIGHTERS AT WORK] Bess and I had a cup of milk and a slice of bread and butter, the best of all morning breakfasts, and ran out to see the sport. Burbidge was there with his boys, looking all of them like marauders, or moonlighters, for their faces were clothed with masks and their hands were covered with thick gloves. Bess grasped tight hold of my hand. "Mamsie, how wicked they look, as if they meant to kill some one," she whispered. As to Mouse, she could not contain her displeasure. She gave a series of low growls, and, for all she knew them, did not like their coming too near us. Burbidge propped back the garden gate with a stout staff. Then they carried the little wooden houses out. What an angry sound of buzzing went on inside, as the men bore them along. "Steady, steady!" cried Burbidge, in a tone of command, "or the little brown people will burst themselves with rage, and then, boys, it will be run for it who can." After this note of warning, "the two boys" advanced very gently and placed the beehives in turn along the side of a path under the shade of an apple grove, and stood them facing south and east. "That be your home," said Burbidge, and then gravely proceeded to whisper "a charm." What that was I have never been able to discover, for Burbidge declared it to be a secret between him and the little brown 'uns, and if it was known the good would go with "gossamer wings." There is something about spring and blossom, and sun, and gentle rain, an old woman once told me, but the exact words old Nelly Fetch wouldn't tell me, and declared, like Burbidge, "that charms and rhymes were best kept between bees and bee-keepers, same as words to the bees when death had visited a family." It is believed in Shropshire that bees are canny, touchy folk, and that those who wish to keep them must be civil and knowledgeable, and, "plaize 'em as little sweethearts," as an old cottager once said to me, "or the bees wud mak' yer rue it." "Whispering a death" is still a common custom. I remember once asking a farmer's wife, who used to be noted for her bees, if she had any honey to sell, and being gravely told that she was out of bees, for that they had forgotten when the master died to whisper his death to them, and in consequence the bees had taken to the woods in displeasure. [Sidenote: "PAINTS NEXT BEST TO WATER"] Bess and I watched the proceedings, and when all the hives were fixed in their places, we put on old aprons and helped to daub on the paint. Burbidge had mixed little cans of each colour, pink, yellow scarlet, and flame, crimson, jonquil, and blue. Bess was delighted with the little pots and the brushes. "Mamsie, I am certain of one thing," she said, "paints are next best to water." And in a few moments the little face, hands, and pinafore, reflected all the colours of the rainbow. In ten minutes or so, we had given each hive one coat of colour, and we never give more. Then we all went and stood at the other end of the garden to see the effect of our handiwork. "Fine, very fine," exclaimed Burbidge, admiringly. "A horse in bells couldn't look smarter." And Bess added, "Mamsie, it's like a bunch of flowers, only there are no leaves." As we remained there, Auguste came on the scene. He appeared with a pail of syrup to feed the bees, for bees will always feed with avidity when put out first into the air, however dainty or reluctant they have been to eat when kept in confinement. A large bottle with a broad opening, full of thick syrup, was filled, and fixed upside down on the top of each hive. We heard behind the perforated zinc a mighty din. "Messieurs les abeilles crient pour leur dîner," said Auguste. Overhead was the sunshine, and the bees scented the breeze. Burbidge filled each bottle, and then replaced the wooden lid of each hive. "Stand back, marm!" he cried, "and you, too, Monsieur." Then Burbidge called his "boys," and they removed the little pieces of zinc that had kept the bees so long prisoners. Out they flew with exultant hums and buzzes. "They wud have liked to cut their way through," cried Absalom, "but zinc, for all their cunning, be the masters of they." "They'll be contented now," laughed Burbidge. "Sugar and sunshine, what more can a bee desire?" There is a great art in making bee syrup, like there is in doing most country things. Syrup should be clear and of the right thickness, and not too liquid; above all, it should not be too thin, so as to pass too quickly through the muslin, or, in Burbidge's words, "it would drown the bees like flies in a jar of cream." After watching the bees come out and fly round in exultant joy, Bess and I returned to the house, for, as Bess said, the "bee play" was over for to-day. How busy the little brown people will be gathering fresh honey, flying amongst the arabis and searching for celandines and primroses. We went in, and Bess ran up to her lessons. Alas! study to my little maid is always a period of sadness. "Real children never like lessons," is my little girl's dictum. They don't like useless things; and to Bess, French, geography, history, and music are all useless and worthless acquisitions. As I sat and embroidered in the Chapel Hall, I was suddenly told that a boy outside wished to speak to me. I left a carnation spray, a copy of a design of one of Mary Queen of Scots', and looked up to welcome Thady Malone, a little Irish lad, who, with his father and mother, had lately come into the parish. Thady is the terror of the locality, and the hero of all the naughty-boy stories of the neighbourhood. [Sidenote: "MORE DEVIL THAN BOY"] According to my old gardener, who looks at him with an evil eye, "Thady be more devil than boy." Burbidge declares that Thady is a plague, and a sore to the town, and "wull be the death of some 'un, unless he kills hisself first." The fact is, Thady has done every naughty thing conceivable. He has fired woods, put strings across roads, I have been told, to try and trip up his natural enemy, James Grogan, the reigning policeman, and even put logs across the little local line, I have been assured; but this he stoutly denies himself. He has been thrashed by indignant farmers for running their sheep, and yet, as Bess says, always turns up "naughty and nice," with the politest of manners, which he gets from "auld Oireland," and the sweetest and most innocent of baby faces out of which natural wickedness ever peeped. A minute later and Thady stood before me, bare-legged and bonny, with an expectant smile in his eyes. I opened the conversation by asking him from where he came? "Right from Mrs. Harley." And he added, with a catch in his throat, "The poor lady is like to die entirely, judging by what Mrs. Betty said, and so I have come to you to see what your leddyship can do to stop the disease." Thady spoke in the most engaging brogue, and he had the sunniest, pleasantest smile in the world. He stood before me, with his little bare feet shyly touching the fringe of the carpet. No other child in the old town goes barefoot. He is known at Wenlock by the nickname of "Naughty Bare-legs," and has a shock of curly hair and dancing grey-blue eyes. "I'll come at once," I said. "But why, Thady, have they sent you?" Thady scratched his head and looked puzzled, declared he didn't know, but protested there was nothing he wouldn't do to oblige Mrs. Harley, for all, he averred, "she's a hathan, and never says a prayer to the blessed Virgin." It appeared that once some naughty boys at Homer nearly succeeded in drowning Mrs. Harley's tortoiseshell kitten, but that Thady, hearing the poor little beast mew, fearlessly came to its rescue, fought his way through the thick of the band of miscreants, and told them they were nothing but base robbers, that they should be the death of something bigger; and before they had recovered from their surprise, had dashed through the ring, plunged out of the brook, and carried off poor pussie victoriously. After this, Mrs. Harley had always been a friend of his, filled his pockets with damsons in autumn, and apples, and when the world turned a cold shoulder on him, never failed to hold out to him the hand of friendship. "For all I'm bad," Thady would say, with a twinkle in his eye, "Mrs. Harley never believes the worst of me, and says (God bless her!) the day will come when the country will be proud of me." There was no time to be lost, so I followed the little bare-legged messenger out of the room, ran upstairs, put on my hat and cape, and whistled my great dog to heel. I said before starting, "Is there nothing I ought to take to her?" Whereupon Thady answered impetuously, with the romance of his people, "There's just nothing at all. It's just your face, my leddy, which the poor body wants to get a sight of, considerin' it's never the shadow of the blessed Virgin that she can bless her eyes with." So without another word, Thady and I passed out of the Abbey, hurried across the emerald velvet of the Cloister lawn, and let ourselves out by the little side wicket, and so up the meadow past the station and away to the top of the hill. "I cannot run any more," at last I cried to Thady, who had set the pace. "We must walk. See, even Mouse is panting." Thady stopped, and then we settled down into a walk, and began after a few minutes to chat. Thady looked at Mouse. "Proud I'd be, my leddy," he said, "if I owned such a dog. The constable, I'm thinking, would look a small man beside me then." At this sally I had the ill-nature to suggest the constable could shoot Mouse. Whereupon Thady, with Hibernian readiness, replied, "Now I'm thinking the dog would bite first." [Sidenote: "A KITTY WREN, BEGORRA!"] A little later a bird flew across the path, upon which Thady cried out, "A Kitty wren, begorra!" and before I could stop him, had picked up a pebble to throw at a little golden-crested wren that I saw running up a spray of yew. "Stop, stop," I cried; "don't throw it." "Why not?" said Thady. "There's no law in England or Oireland against killin' a wren, beside"--and he what the Shropshire folks call "rippled over" with laughter--"'twould be a pretty shot." But I begged him to desist, and Thady, who is civility itself, or, as he quaintly expresses it, "born dutiful entirely to a leddy," dropped his stone and we walked on. After a few minutes' conversation, I discovered that Thady Malone was a naturalist of no mean repute, that he could imitate the call and various notes of most of the wild birds, and that he knew where to find their nests. "And if it's after such," he added gallantly, "that yer fancy takes yer, I'll lead yer and show yer the rarest birds that fly. Only wait another fortnight, pheasants, hawks, magpies, jays, blackcaps, blue-bonnets, Nanny washtails, heather lenties, red-poles, cutty wrens, corbie crows, Harry redcaps, and scores of others." Many of Thady's names I did not know, but Thady was graciously inclined, and assured me that he would "learn my leddyship the true names." "I don't call them after the books whatever," he asserted, "but same as the gipsy folks, and by the names known by the people that lived in London, and elsewhere, before us settled in Wenlock." So it was agreed that Thady and I were to spend a day in the woods. "Let it be Saturday," said Thady, authoritatively, "for then there's no school to plague the life out of a fellow. I can climb and you can cap," by which Thady meant that I was to carry the eggs. "Thady," I said, as we parted at Mrs. Harley's wicket, "you must come for me some Saturday. We will go into the woods, and I will bring out luncheon, and you shall climb the trees, whilst I and Bess will search the ground; but we will take no nests, only look at them and see the eggs." "Leave the eggs, and what for will her leddyship do that?" asked Thady, surprised. "That wud be like catching a hare and not finding it in the pot the night after." "Well," I remonstrated, "when you come with me, you must play my game of bird-nesting. Anyway, I can promise there will be nothing sick, or sorry, where we have gone." Thady at this laughed a little contemptuously, and a second later vanished behind a hedgerow, and I entered Mrs. Harley's cottage. It was a lovely morning, bright and joyous. The air was full of spring odours, and in the song of the birds I only heard the echo of universal joy. Yet I knew, the moment I entered the cottage, that the hand of Death was about to beckon my old friend away from the good and useful life, that she had led so well and bravely, to the other side of the bourn from which no man returns. Old Bessie met me. "Her's goin' fast," she whispered, and stood a moment in the sunlight, hot tears almost blinding her poor old eyes. Then, as I hesitated, she touched me gently on the arm and murmured, "Come up, come up. Glad her'll be to see you, for all her's done with Homer, and this world too." So I mounted the stairs and again found myself in Mrs. Harley's presence. Outside beyond the Severn and the Wrekin, the sun was shining gaily. Inside the little chamber, all was spotlessly clean, I noted, as I entered the bed-chamber. I saw the dying woman wanted something, from the way in which her face moved. [Sidenote: "A FAIR DAY TO GO HOME"] "Light, light," she murmured as I touched her hand; and then, very low, "A fair day to go Home." "Her's been talking of nothing but goin' home," said Betsy, reverently; "and her's goin' sure, same as gospel truth." "All's at peace," whispered my old friend, and took a long, far look of the great hill of which all Shropshire men are so proud. So, smiling tenderly and loving the distant scene, her head sank back, and she seemed gently to fall asleep. "How peaceful!" I said, awestruck. "The Lord have a-called her, and her work be done," said Betty solemnly, a little later. "'Tis a good thing," she added, "to have done good work, and I think the Lord loved her for all she was lowly and never trod in high places." Then I left Betty, and the triumphant serene face, in the little whitewashed chamber. As I departed, I was conscious of having touched the fringe of a very holy garment. I passed out. And as I met the gladness of the outside world, I knew that some of my old friend's radiance was still lighting my path. After all, I know no better or more blessed things than simple faith, and a noble life, ended by His supreme grace. Mouse followed at my heels, dutifully walking close behind me. It is curious, the way in which a dog that is often our companion, reflects our mood. The great hound knew that I was absorbed, and gave way to no frolic, chased no rabbit, but kept near, watching me out of her topaz eyes solemnly and with marked concern. A great stillness seemed to belong to the afternoon. The sun was hidden beneath tender lavender clouds. I crossed a stile and walked amongst the budding grass. Suddenly out of a wood, for the first time in the year, I heard the mystic voice of the cuckoo, calling, calling as if out of a dream. What a delightful eërie sound it is! Not like a real bird, but like some voice from another world, with its strange power of reiteration, a voice which we cannot do otherwise than listen to; for, as Sir Philip Sidney said, "The cuckoo cometh to you with a tale to hold children from their play, and old men from the chimney corner." From all time men have loved his cry. In the "Exeter Book" occurs the passage-- "Sweet was the song of birds, The earth was covered with flowers, Cuckoos announced the year." [Sidenote: THE CRY OF THE CUCKOO] I did not see the bird, which lent enchantment to his song. I listened, with budding daisies at my feet, and over Wenlock spire a magic purple light. He seemed to me no bird, but a spirit calling to the world with a gladness that we cannot know. Death and winter must come, but for all that, spring is here, he seemed to say. Death had come near me, even touched me half an hour ago, but for all the solemn sadness I felt a brief time ago, the joy of life seized me afresh. As I wandered home across the peaceful fields, the Cuckoo's call seemed spoken and repeated from coppice to hedgerow, and in every mossy dingle. The old nursery rhyme I used to say in childhood came back to me-- "In April The Cuckoo shows his bill; In May He sings all day; In June He alters his tune; In July Away he'll fly; Come August Fly he must." Yes, I say, fly he must, with summer which is "the sovereign joy of all things," as Piers Ploughman wrote long years ago, and then autumn, and the long chill nights of winter. There is always a mystery about the cuckoo, as to where he comes from, and where he goes. Far down in the south of India, I have been told, is the only place where the cuckoo is to be found summer and winter alike, calling in the tropics his strange, mystic cry. Be this as it may, he is never with us in Shropshire till the second week in April, and vanishes like a ghost early in August. Some days later, and it was Palm Sunday, one of the great festivals of old England during the Middle Ages. There is but little sign left now of the blessing of the boughs, as the rite was performed in mediæval times, save that nearly all the boys present had cut sprigs of the wild willow and placed them in their button-holes, and my little maid, by her old Nana's wish, had a spray pinned in also, amongst the ribbons of her hat. What a lovely blossom it is, that of the wild willow. How delicate the soft grey, and how lovely the brilliant shades of gold. How wonderful is the mixture of both colours, and how exquisitely gold and grey melt into each other. As I sat in our pew on the northern side of the church, I thought of the old Church Service that once was held there. After the Mass, I have read, it was usual that there should follow the hallowing of the branches and flowers by the priest. I thought, as I sat in church in Protestant England, of how the priest, up to the first half of the sixteenth century, and for long centuries before, stood forth in scarlet cope and blessed the sweet branches and the first flowers of the year. I liked to recall the old rite and custom of entreating the Almighty to bless and sanctify "his creatures," by which was meant branch and blossom, which were laid by lay brothers and novices at the foot of the altar, and then it was nice to think how branch and blossom were broken up and blest, and a spray given to all the devout people assembled. It was a pretty and holy usage, and I could not but feel regret, that so gracious a rite was lost. It must have been a delightful service for little children to witness, and a sweet memory for the old who could remember the happy springs of years gone by. As we came out of church, I told Bess about the old custom. And Bess said dryly, "Now we have to bless our palm branches ourselves;" and added with the strange intuition of a child, "I think it was better when God did part of it, don't you, mamsie?" [Sidenote: A STROLL IN THE CHURCHYARD] After the service, we took a stroll into the picturesque old churchyard, surrounded by old black and white timber, and Georgian houses of glowing red brick. There was standing by the door by which we entered the church, the remains of an old stone cross and several tombs, which, I have been told, were brought from the ruined Abbey Church. The grass was full of glittering daffodils, which shone like stars, and the scent from the ribes and Daphne bushes filled God's acre with sweetness. Bess and I walked round the churchyard. I told her of the little room over the church-porch with its little narrow window. Such a holy little room, I said. In such a room, I think, holy Master George Herbert must have written; and from that I went on to tell my little girl about Sir Thomas Botelar, the first priest who lived at Much Wenlock after the expulsion of the monks. [Illustration: _Photo by Mr. W. Golling._ SIR THOMAS BOTELAR'S HOUSE.] "Tell me about him," said Bess, eagerly. "I like to hear about good monks and priests from you, although Nana says they were all wicked, and walled up poor girls. But perhaps," added Bess, thoughtfully, "they were not all as wicked as she thinks; leastways, there may have been a few good ones just sometimes." After luncheon I took down the printed sheets in which are preserved Sir Thomas Botelar's entries, for, alas! his original manuscript perished in the great fire at Wynnstay in 1859. And I read aloud such passages as I thought my little girl would follow, at least in places. As I read aloud, Constance was ushered in. She did not know Sir Thomas's register and begged me to go on reading, so I continued to read. The old papers, I told her in a pause, embraced eight years of Henry VIII.'s reign, went through that of Edward VI.'s, took in the whole of Queen Mary's, and gave the four opening years of Queen Elizabeth's reign. All Sir Thomas's sympathies were with the old order of things, I begged her to remember, and then I went on reading. "'In February, 1546, on the 5th day of the month, word and knowledge came to the borough of Much Wenlock that our Sovereign Lord King Henry VIII. was departed out of this transitory life, whose soul,'" Sir Thomas added, "'God Almighty pardon.'" "Sir Thomas Botelar," I told Constance, "was the last Abbot of St. Peter and St. Paul's Monastery at Shrewsbury. After the Dissolution, the King turned away all the monks, and Sir Thomas became, after a short time, Vicar of Much Wenlock, but his heart remained in the cloisters of his former abbey." Then I turned to a notice a little further down the page-- "'On the 13th April of the same year three convicts were buried, and one was a child of eleven.' Poor little girl," I said, "what a terrible bald statement of misery! What could so young a child have done to merit death?" "I cannot think," exclaimed Bess. "Perhaps cursed and swore and scratched; but, even then, had she no father or mother to forgive her?" "Only God," said Constance, softly. And then I begged them to listen to an account of a funeral of an excellent priest, and obviously a very learned man. [Sidenote: THE OLD CHURCH REGISTERS] "'Sir William Corvehill, priest,'" I read, "'was laid in a tomb of lime and stone, which he had caused to be made for himself. Sir W. Corvehill was excellently and singularly expert in divers of the VIJ liberal sciences, especially in geometry. He was also skilled in the making of organs and in the carving of masonry, in the weaving of silk, and in printing. Besides he was,'" adds Sir Thomas, "'a very patient man and full honest in his conversation and living.'" Then, after commending his soul to the care of God, Sir Thomas wound up quaintly by declaring that, "'All this country hath a great loss from the death of Sir William Corvehill, for he was a good bell-founder and a maker and framer of bells.'" Then I found a notice of a marriage. "'Here was married,'" ran the old register, "'Thomas Munslow Smith and Alice Nycols;'" and added, "'The bride was wedded in her smock, and barehead.'" "When I'm married," said Bess, loftily, "I'll have a veil and some flowers. Nana says it isn't proper to be married without a veil. 'Twould be as silly as papa ploughing, or you, mama, plucking fowls." I didn't enter into the question of parental ridicule, but I looked down the vicar's entries and read, "'Poor Sir John Baily Clerke, otherwise called John Cressage, died. It was about 9 of the clock,'" wrote Sir Thomas, "'and at the manor place of Madeley.'" Bess had often heard the story from me of the poor old man who, after surrendering his monastery, retired broken-hearted to die at Madeley. When I came to this part of the register, she broke out indignantly with-- "Why couldn't they leave _our_ abbot alone? I can't abear that old Henry VIII. He did nothing but wicked things: cut off his wives' heads and pulled down churches and nice buildings. Yet Nan and Burbidge call him a good man. I think people ought to be good in a different way." Bess was quite excited, and Constance had to take her on her knee to soothe her, and thus she sat on listening, with a scarlet face. Then I read how, after the death of King Edward, Sir Thomas and all the people made great joy over the proclaiming of the Lady Mary Queen of England. I read also how the people of Bridgnorth "fair cast up their caps and hats, lauding, thanking, and praising God Almighty, with ringing of bells and making of bonfires in the streets," and how the same joy was evinced at Shrewsbury, and at Much Wenlock. In the first year of Mary's reign on June 16th, I read that the altar of our blessed Lady within this church (of the Holy Trinity) was again built up and consecrated afresh, and evidently Sir Thomas rejoiced. A month later, the Bishop of Worcester, the Lord President of the Marches, coming with Justice Townesynde, stopped on their road to Bridgnorth at Much Wenlock, and were entertained by Richard Lawley at the Ash, the fine old timber house in Spital Street, where, at a later date, Charles I. and Prince Rupert both slept on different occasions. Then followed a description of the _fête_ held in their honour. We learnt how the house was gaily decked with cloths of Arras, with the covering of beds, bancards, carpets and cushions, and how the table was laden with pears and dishes of apples of the previous year. We wondered how they could have been kept. Also with cakes, fine wafers, claret, sack and white wine, and after much pleasant feasting and pleasant intercourse, how "Mr. Justice rose and gave the Burgesses great and gentle thanks for their cost and cheer." "I wish that I, too, mamsie, had been there, for I, too, would like to have eaten pears in summer, and have seen all their gay carpets," exclaimed Bess. A little later on in the pamphlet I found the announcement of Queen Elizabeth's being proclaimed Queen after the death of her sister. Sir Thomas made this entry evidently with rather a heavy heart. As I closed the little book, Constance took it in her hand and looked over the pages. "How many were hanged in those days!" she said sadly. "There are mentions of executions for sheep stealing, for murder, for robbery; and what a number of convicts, even children of quite tender years." Then she alluded to the immense age of many of the parishioners named. Agnes Pyner was said to be seven score years when she received the blessed sacrament just before death. John Trussingham declared that he was seven score years, and that at the age of four-score years he had witnessed the battle of Blore Heath; whilst John Francis, chief farmer at Callaughton, Sir Thomas declared, was aged 107 years when he was buried. [Sidenote: JOAN OF POSENHALL] Then Constance's fingers flitted back to a past page, and she read aloud a touching little entry about Joan of Posenhall, a fair maiden of twenty-two years, who, it was believed, "died of a canker in the mouth, which disease her father ascribed to the smelling of rose flowers." "Could it have been a poisoned rose?" I asked, for in those days many and subtle were the poisons used to get rid of a fair rival. But Bess could not understand how a rose by its scent could injure any one. "In my true fairy-stories," she said, "roses can only do good. They are only good fairies' gifts, and I know they can only come out of the mouths of good girls--real good girls," Bess repeated, "so I don't see how a rose could have hurt poor Joan." Whereupon I explained matters to my little maid. After a pause Bess exclaimed-- "Well, I think 'tis best to live now, for anyhow we've only doctors to kill us." "To save us," laughed Constance. But Bess would not allow this. "To kill us is what Mrs. Burbidge says; and Nana says she won't have a doctor in at no price for herself." Then Bess jumped up from her chair, and declared inconsequently that it was time to feed her puppy, and darted out of the room, and Constance and I were left alone. Upon which we fell to chatting about the great quilt. "I have chosen the flowers, as you know," she said. And she enumerated one after another their old-world musical names. "And now I want charming words about sleep," she added. I suggested from Sir Thomas Browne's "Religio Medici": "Make my sleep a holy trance," or "On my temples sentry keep," again from the same author "Come as thou wilt, or what thou wilt bequeath," from Drummond of Hawthornden, or again, "Men like visions are, Time all doth claim," or "He lives who dies to win a lasting fame." "You must not also," I said, "forget a beautiful line from Mrs. Barrett Browning: 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'" Before leaving me, Constance told me that she and Bess had a little game in hand--a real May frolic--"but you must not know yet, it must be a surprise." [Sidenote: THE QUEEN OF THE MAY] To this I at once gave my maternal sanction, and then the nature of the "secret" was revealed to me. Constance told me that she proposed to have a little May dance for some eight of the little school maidens, and that she would like Bess to take a part in the festivities. Eight little maidens are to dance round the maypole, which is to be decked with ribbons and many flowers, and are to sing some old songs; and she added, "If you have no objection, Bess is to say us a verse or two from some old poets in honour of May morning." I fell in readily with Constance's little plans for a village _fête_, and offered the old bowling green as a site for it to take place. "The bowling green," I said, "is very sheltered; it is surrounded on three sides with yew hedges, and I am delighted at the idea of Bess appearing as the queen of the revels." Bess is to be attired all in white with a crown of flaming marsh marigolds on her head, and to bear in her hand a staff decorated with primroses, cowslips, and sprays of beech and willow. Just as Constance was leaving, Bess rushed in and seized my friend's hand, and called out impetuously, "Have you told mamsie? May I? May I?" I nodded "yes," and told my little maid that she was to have a white muslin, a white wand of office, posies of primroses and shining shoe buckles. Bess was delighted, she hugged me and Constance rapturously in turns, and said "it will be the best day of my life." "All we must hope will be a success," laughed Constance, as she departed up the pathway to the old gate-house; "and we must pray for sunshine for the sake of the little expectant maidens and anxious mothers." Next morning I confided to Burbidge the plan of our proposed revels, and informed him that I should like to ask in the villagers. Burbidge remarked in a lofty way that he had no objection--a Yorkshire expression which he acquired when a lad from a Yorkshire gardener; but added severely, that they that come must keep to the paths, not spoil _his_ lawns, and scatter no lollipop papers, or such-like dirt. But Burbidge's old wife, Hester, showed a less conciliatory spirit. In a foolish moment, as I happened to meet her carrying Burbidge's dinner to the tool-house, I confided our secret. Upon which she told me sourly that she was sorry to think "as there is to be play-acting, and even dancing on the property--the monks," she declared, "were bad enough, but this would beat all." Hester is descended from old Puritan stock, and disapproves of all laughter and merriment. Burbidge, who overheard her last words of censure, exclaimed-- "Tut, tut, my dear, you was young once. I can mind thee fine as a horse in bells, for all thee's old now and that the rheumatics lay hold on thee, sharp as scissor points. But the young uns they want their games and their plays, for all as us is getting miller's bags on our pates." "Speak for yourself," replied Hester, with acidity, puckering up her withered visage. And then she added with severity, "I never knew yet any good come out, or wisdom, of play-acting. They be devil's works, and take my word for it," and there she held up a bony emphatic finger, "that the devil will claim toll, for all as they seem mild and innocent." With which ominous remark Hester made over to Burbidge his dinner, and hobbled up the back drive homeward. "'Tis a pity," said Burbidge, looking after his old wife, "as good wine can turn to vinegay like that. The Lord made her, but the old 'un" (the devil) "guides her eyesight sure enough, and most times directs her tongue. The fact is," and the old man drew himself up straight, "when yer think too much about hell, yer can never see heaven. My mother used to say that, and for all she was a Methody body, it be gospel truth." [Sidenote: EASTER SUNDAY] A few days later it was Easter Sunday. The bells rang merrily, but we hurried off to church almost late; for, according to Shropshire fashion, Bess had got a new frock on for the occasion. It consisted of a pale mauve serge of the colour of the autumn crocus blossoms which flower in the aftermath in this neighbourhood. For the last fortnight dear old Nanny had been too busy "to draw a breath," to use her favourite expression, and had sewn morning, afternoon, and evening, to get my little maid's frock completed by Easter Sunday. For it is held in Shropshire to be most unlucky not to be clad in fresh attire on that feast day of the Church. Wherefore, whatever else was left undone, Bess's frock had to be finished for the festival. "The rooks," murmured Bess, as we entered the churchyard, "cannot say nothing, for all I have is new--shoes, stockings, drawers, chemise, and frock. And them," alluding to the rooks, "them only spoils old things, does them, mamsie?" "Oh, you're safe," I laughed, and we passed up the aisle. A peal of bells was ringing gaily. "How gay and good it sounds," whispered Bess, dreamily, "as if all the world was good and playing." Then we walked up to our pew, and the mild delicate scent of primroses greeted us everywhere. "I wish we had flowers every Sunday," said Bess, as she flumped down in her seat. "It seems to make God's house like a posy. I think it must be nicer for Him so." The old columns were festooned with garlands of flowers, and round the ancient font were placed bunches of flashing marsh marigolds and great branches of tender half-uncurled beech leaves. Bess looked round her, and said gravely in an undertone, "I think the blessing will come this Sunday, for I feel sure that God cannot see so many flowers about without being pleased." Then I said, "Hush!" for I feared my little maid was talking over-much. Immediately after, the morning service began. At the close, as the last hymn died away, Nana took my little maiden off, whilst I remained on for the most beautiful, and the most solemn, of all our Church services. The sound of retreating footsteps was at last hushed. The children had all left, and many of the people. Then there was a pause, and then the opening prayers, and I saw, in the dim light of the chancel window, the vicar breaking the bread and preparing the wine, and we were invited to the Lord's Table. "The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life." I seemed to hear the solemn words as in a trance. Outside, through the old perpendicular window, the sun was shining faintly, and from the glad world without I heard the birds singing in a joyous chorus. Inside, the great and solemn rite of Christianity was being administered, and faith and love of Him who died for the sins of men was visiting each faithful heart in a rapture of holy delight. A few minutes afterwards and I regained my seat. The spirit of the old world was with me. How many pious hearts have offered up prayer and thanksgiving before those altar rails! How often has the blessed Sacrament come to faithful hearts, as an elixir of the soul! [Sidenote: THE HOLY SACRAMENT] Owing, perhaps, to the joy of the world outside, there was a great sense of triumph in such an Easter Sunday. "Christ is risen!" seemed to be shouted everywhere; His body had suffered pain and death, but now the heavens were opening for the glory in which death and pain could have no place. The glory of His life was everywhere. For "with angels, and archangels, and with all the company of heaven," could "we laud and magnify our Lord and praise the Most High." I came out of the church, and some of its mystic radiance seems to cling like a cloud of splendour around me. As I walked along, I thought of the founder of the town church, Roger de Montgomery, the great Earl of Shrewsbury, who founded also that of the Abbey close by. The former, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, still has its roof, and pious services are still performed there every Sunday; whereas the Abbey church of the Clugniac monks is deserted alike by prior and pilgrim. Alone, my pigeons and the jackdaws fly amidst its aisles, and only across grass and thyme can the outlines of the high altar be discerned. I lingered at the church wicket. A soft shower had just fallen, and dew-drops glistened on the grass like pearls. A great white cross shone in splendour, still wet, but of dazzling whiteness, almost like a pillar of light in the morning sunshine. The birds on every bush and wall were chanting anthems of delight. A minute later I passed out of God's acre, and Bess met me in the avenue. My little maid rushed up with a bound of excitement. "Thady is ill, mum," she cried. "I heard Burbidge tell Nana so. He said 'The little varmint be down with a bad leg, and he hoped that would settle him for a bit.' And Nana said 'she hoped it would, too, for when boys were wicked they was best in bed.' But I'm sorry, sorry, for all Thady's naughty, he's never nasty." I sympathized with Bess, and promised that we would visit Thady during the afternoon. After luncheon, we cut Thady a slice of plum-pudding, and Bess put aside for him an Easter-egg. "I had three," she said, "and this one is sky blue, and Auguste says that is the best colour of all and sure to bring good luck. So you'll see, mum," she added, "Thady will be right again and able to climb the trees in no time after he has eaten my egg." We prepared to start out, and took Thady the gifts contained in the basket; but Bess declared that first we must go into the ruins and pick her little friend a bunch of daffydowndillies. "'A bunch of daffs on Easter Day Brings luck to the house, and peace in May.' "Nan says so, and I believe it," cried Bess. "Anyway, Thady will like to look at 'em while he eats my egg." So we wandered into the rough grass inside the ruined church to pluck a handful. How beautiful are spring flowers. All round it was a blaze of brilliant blossoms. There were early Van Thol tulips, like flames of fire, large rings of golden daffodils, some of them with almost orange faces moving in the soft winds, and then there were patches of beautiful blue scilla sibirica, and in the distance the star-like forms of the narcissi Stella, and Cynosure. [Sidenote: A MEAD OF BLOSSOMS] For several autumns Burbidge and "his boys" had planted for me great numbers of bulbs, and the result was, as Burbidge said, better "than a carpet of delight." These bulbs are now grown largely in Lincolnshire, and in parts of Ireland. When they arrived they looked small and meagre. They were not at all the splendid, sleek, fat bulbs, that come from Holland; but, to quote Burbidge, looked "poor little shy customers;" but they were glad enough to find a home in the Abbey turf. Before putting them in, we skinned back the grass, dug up the soil to about six inches, added a little leaf mould, took out any stones, and popped in tulips, daffodils, snowdrops, crocuses, and, for a later radiance when the hawthorn would be out in snow, the rich double white narcissus, that gardeners call, on account of its perfume and appearance, the gardenia narcissus. We put in three to five bulbs in each little space. After which we carefully replaced the grass, and beat it well down, so that, after the first shower, no one could have known that we had even moved the turf. Just then much of the grass of the ruins was a sheet of glory, reminding me in its _parterre_-like beauty of the foreground of some early Italian painter. Every autumn Burbidge and his workers bring wheelbarrow loads of leaf mould and decayed lawn grass, and spread them over my "bulb forest;" and the result is that every year the flower roots strengthen, and the blossoms multiply. Bess ran from group to group, until her hands were full of different daffodils. "There's luck here," she cried, "and see, they glitter like gold money, mamsie--that must mean something good." We walked, laden with our gifts, till we reached the Bull Ring. We paused at the door of an old black and white house, with a broad pebble causeway before it. On entering the cottage we found Thady in bed. "Well, Thady, how did it happen?" I said. "I was after a rook's nest," replied Thady, "and the twig gave way entirely, and so I came down dang-swang, as the folks say here." "Indade," said his mother, Mrs. Malone, "it's afflicted I am in Thady. When he's good he's ill, and when he's well he keeps company entirely with the Devil." "Never fear, mother, whativer. 'Tis a bad boy as can't get good some day," and Thady, for all his face looked white and worn from pain, he burst into an irresistible fit of laughter. Upon this Bess showered upon him yellow daffodils, and I opened my basket containing the plum-pudding, and Bess's sky-blue egg, and an orange or two. "Sure and God bless you," said the good dame, his mother, with enthusiasm. "They will please him finely, for Wenlock is as dull as ditch water, for all they boast that in days gone by once there was gay goings on here. Bull and dog baitings, according to our old neighbour Timothy Theobalds' tales, and behind the Vicarage, cock matches fit for a king, and pretty fights between the young men behind the church. But, whatever there was then, 'tis still now, and sleepy as Time." [Sidenote: MASTER THEOBALDS ON POLITICS] As we left the cottage I met the neighbour of the Malones, old Timothy Theobalds. He was a shrivelled little old man, had been ount, or mole-catcher, for many years, had driven cattle to market, and I have also heard, was once earth-stopper to the Hunt. If what his neighbours say is true, old Timothy is not now far off a hundred. He receives annually a small pension collected from three county families, has, I am told, cakes and beer at Yule-tide from his neighbours, and in his own words, "a snap of somethin' tasty, when he has a mind, wherever he goes." The old man is excellent company for all his years, and has many a good story to tell, of folks long since dead, and of the wild ways and curious customs of old Shropshire, before the days of railroads, when folks still believed in witches, and in the power of divining rods, and danced, and made merry at wakes and fairs. Like many other old men, "Daddy" Theobalds is not exempt from grumbling, and can use language, I fear, "fit to blow your head off" if provoked. According to him, "Life's a poor thing now. No fun nor luck left. Yer mayn't even get a shillin' nowadays for a vote if so be as yer has one; though what good a vote can do a poor man if he can't sell it, I don't know. They Radicals," he told me once, "were grand at givin'; but their gifts were nought but mugs wi'out beer, or dishes wi'out beef; they brought nought when yer speered in, but fandangles, flummery and folly." Old Timothy I met leaning on his stick before his door, clad in a long embroidered smock. He pushed open the door. "Come in, marm," he says, "and sit yer down before the fire." I entered his house whilst Bess dashed off to fetch the pug-pup, exclaiming, "We must remember it is his Easter Sunday," and I and old Timothy were left alone. I made a remark upon the fine day, and told old Timothy about the morning service and the lovely flowers. Old Timothy did not respond. He holds to church on Sunday, but rather as a preparation to a Sunday dinner, than anything else, I fear; but as to flowers, he "doesn't think much of they, leastways not in churches." "When I war a lad," he said, "folks kept they for May Day, and the lads and lasses then went out and pulled blossoms and danced, for the fun of the land wasn't all dead then, as it is now. That be the proper use of blows." Then, after a pause, in a weary voice old Timothy went on to say, "'Tis a deal decenter now, no doubt, more paint about and print readen', but the fun and jollity be clean dead. When I war young, folks often had a tidy bit saved, and when they had 'a do' they spent it at home. The missus would bake Yule-tide cakes or all souls, or snap-jacks, accordin' to the season, and the maister brewed a barrel of ale, and then the couple wud call in the neighbours. Now 'tis hoard up, and go away, as if yer could only laugh in London or Birmingham, and never a cake or a sup for friends or neighbours. "Folks could play well enough when I war a boy," and then old Timothy began to tell me of the old "plays" as he called them. "This place, 'Old Wenlock,' as us used to call it, war cheery, and jolly, in grandam's days," he told me. "Every spring there wud come a man with a bull. Many is the one, I have heard her say, was baited in this spot, just outside the doors. The farmers and colliers from Ironbridge would bring their dogs, and have three days' drinking and amusement. And," continued old Timothy, "he war a mighty fine man as cud count as his the best bull dog about. Now folks be proud of their cricket, and of their football matches, but the games can't touch the old sports." Then after a pause, old Timothy said solemnly, "It war a terrible undoing of England puttin' down the old plays. I mind," the old man added, "how mad dad war when they put down the bull-baiting at Ellesmere. There used, in the old times, to be grand goings on there. Well, one Wake Monday, Mr. Clarke, 'the captain' as they called him, put that down. Tom Byollin, I've heard dad say, war leaden' the bull round pretty nigh smothered in ribbons, as war the good old custom, when the captain 'e comes up and 'e said, 'What be goin' to do with that there bull?' 'Bait 'im,' said Tom, 'we allus bait a bull at Wake's. 'Tis our Christian custom.' But the captain he wudn't have it. He war allus a meally souled 'un, 'cording to dad, and one that left a good custom, to take up with a new one, and so he offered five pounds to Tom, and got round him by biddin' too a new pair of breeks--and so there war no bull-baiten. Tom was mortal hard up, I've heard, but to his dyin' day he regretted the job, and used to cry over his cups, because he had helped to ruin the land by doin' away with a good old practice." "Did you ever see a bull baited?" I asked old Timothy. [Sidenote: "A ROYAL DO"] "Yes, mam," answered my old friend with pride, "when I war at Loppington, I have myself seen the sport, as quite a lad," and as he spoke old Timothy's eyes lighted up with excitement. "It war a royal do. For they had not only bulls, but bears. I mind me," he continued after a minute's hesitation, "as it war in 1825. There war great rejoicin's. Folks druv and came in from all parts, and it war a grand celebration, and all given because the parson's daughter war marryin' a squire. They said as the parson paid the costs hisself bang off, he was that pleased at his daughter's grand marriage. But then parsons _were_ parsons in those days. They rode, shot, and wrestled, besides preachin'. 'Tis true as there war a few what objected. Now at Madeley Wakes they had grand games on too. All the colliers, I've heard grandam say, used to come down and bet free and easy, like gentlemen born. Many was the time, I've heard 'em say, folks used to see the collier folks ranged down to make a lane like for the bull or bear to pass along. My word! as old Matt Dykes used to say. It war a mighty question which looked best, beast or dog, for when 'twas a bull, they only slipt one to a time. 'One dog one bull,' that war what they used to say to Madeley. "Oaken-Gates, I've heard say, war the last place where they baited the bull in Shropshire. And I allus say," said old Timothy, with a spark of enthusiasm, "that 'tis a mighty fine feather in the cap of that place, as it war the last as kept up the good old English sport." Then old Timothy went on to tell me "how the bull in 1833 at Madeley war a mighty game 'un, and tugged that ferocious at the stake, that he broke abroad stake and all, and with the chain charged down madly, and hurted several what war standing by." After a pause, old Timothy went on to tell me, "how for all the Vicar of Loppington war reasonable and right minded about the old sports, there war some even then, as had 'cakey' and queasy stomachs about such enjoyments." And he went on to say how Mr. Anstice of Madeley, and one Mortimer, as was vicar then, spoilt, in his own language, sport cruel. "It war in this way," continued the old man, "the bull, a proper beast, war baited three times; first, at the Horse Inn, then at Lincoln Hill, and lastly, on Madeley Wood Green. At the last bout, Squire Anstice and Parson Mortimer they comed up with a handful of constables, but there war hundreds of colliers and decent folks looking on, and I war told that they could have chawed up constables, squire, and vicar, if they had a mind." "And what saved 'em?" I asked eagerly. "Well," answered Maister Theobalds, "for all the vicar war a little 'un deformed, and some called him as dry as a chip, he had a mighty fine tongue, and though he'd hadn't grit enough to thresh a hen, he'd hadn't no mortal fear, and he stood up and pleaded and spoke same as if the bull had been his brother. And the bull war sent away." [Sidenote: "LAMB-LIKE TO PUPS"] Then after a little while Timothy added reflectively, "There be mountains in a tongue. Grandam used to say as Parson Mortimer seemed to hold God Almighty inside him when he war angry, so terrible war he, not that he ever war angry unless he waxed white hot about sin, or cruelty, as he called it. He war a little 'un to look at, but he had a mighty spirit, though lamb-like to pups, childers, and wild wounded things. The biggest fellows quailed before him when he took on in a rampage, and none of them dared sin when he war by." At that moment I heard my Bess tapping at the door. "Lor, bless her," said Timothy, "'tis the little 'un; how them does grow, the childers," and he got up and hobbled to the door. Then Bess ran in and bubbled over with excitement about her May _fête_, for she had met Constance on the road. She told old Master Theobalds that he must come down and see her May dance. "Sure I will, my pretty," he said; "I'd like to see a May-stang again, and a mass of lads and lasses dancing round, as I have heard grandam talk about when she war a likely wench." Then the old man began to tell us of the old May Days, and of the long-handed-down traditions of the Shropshire May festival. "It war the fashion," he said, "in the old time for all the lads and lasses to wend their way to the Stanhill Coppice or down to the great Edge Wood, and a merry time they had. Old Gregson Child as war shepherd to Farmer Dawson, that lived once at the Marsh Farm, used to go with the lads, and they used to blow horns, and one or two, if they had a mind, would tootle on the flute, and others scrape on fiddles, till wood and field fair swarmed with music, and so, they say, they got them to the woods an hour or so after dawn. And after a while, the lads and lasses would twine garlands, and the lads would buss the lasses. And the lasses would cry out, but let 'em do it again, and when they had romped and sang, the boys and maids, fair smothered in May branches, mead marigolds, posies of primroses, and laxter shoots of beech and hazel, would get them to their homes and hang up garlands and posies to their lintels over their dad's door, and take to laughter and bussing again. "Ay, grandam used to talk of those times--merry times for all they hung for sheep stealing, sure enough, but the lads laughed 'twixt times gay as ecalls," and the old man bent before the dying fire, and seemed in thought to plunge back to the days of the past, which even he could hardly have seen. Then Bess and I got up, and Mouse gave a deep bark, and as I said good-bye, I repeated my invitation for the First of May. "Lor', mam," replied old Timothy, sadly, as he opened the door, "it isn't likely as I shall forget it, for a piece of jollity don't often come my way. 'Tis dull and parson-like as they've made the world now. Well, it is for the young 'uns to call for the tune now." We passed into the sunlight, and saw the lads and lasses hastening to school, and away up the streets I saw older lads and lasses in Sunday trim, dressed for courting, and the Sunday walk. [Sidenote: OLD MAY DAYS] Is the world less merry, I asked myself, since old Timothy's grandam danced beneath the May-pole? Have we forgotten how to laugh and sing in village and hamlet, and is merry England steeped in grey mists? I thought of what I had heard, as I walked along, and tried to picture to myself that merry England of whom a stranger wrote, "A merrier, gayer people breathe not on God's earth." I thought of the time when the May Festival was observed by nobles, and even by kings and queens. I remembered how Chaucer, in his "Court of Love," tells us that early on May Day "went forth all the Court, both most and least, to fetch fresh flowers, and so bring back branch and bloom." "O Maye with all thy flowers, and thy green, Bright welcome, be thou faire, freshe May," exclaims the courtly knight Arcite. I recalled a passage in Malory where the great prose poet makes beautiful Queen Guinevere go a-maying with her lords and ladies. In Henry VIII.'s reign the Court still went a-maying, for Hall tells us how Henry, in his youth, accompanied by his stately Spanish queen, "rose up early with all their courtiers" to enjoy the old English custom, and of how the Court went forth with bows and arrows, shooting through the green spring woods, and brought back "flowers and branches." Shakespeare, in his "Midsummer Night's Dream," alluded to the old English holiday, and declares, through the mouth of one of his characters, that folks would not lie abed the last day of April, but rose up early to observe this rite of May, so eager were they for its fun. So keenly did Queen Bess enjoy these revels that she always longed, it is said, to lay aside the state of royalty on these occasions, and live the life of a milkmaid during the month of May. Towards the close of the Elizabethan era, Stubbs wrote, sourly attacking all such practices. In an old brown, mouldy book by him, that I once came across in an old country house library, entitled "Anatomie of Abuses," I read a jaundiced account of a May festival. "The Chiefest Jewel that they bring from the woods," he wrote, "is their May-poole, which they bring home in great veneration in this wise." And then the old Puritan went on to recount how "tweentie to fourtie yoke of oxen were harnessed together, and how a sweet posie of flowers was tied to the typee of their horns, and so the oxen drew home the May-poole." Thinking over old-fashioned customs, it was impossible not to lament there is now left, to quote an old chronicler's quaint expression, "so little worshipful mirth" in England, and that villages no longer have their dances and May Day rejoicings, as in years gone by. It cannot be other than a matter of regret to all reflective minds, that the one notion of pleasure amongst our working classes, is to sit long hours in an excursion train, and, be it said, invariably to leave their own homes. Hospitality amongst the poor, save for a wedding or a christening, has become a thing of the past. Love-spinning, soul-caking, and well-dancing are all gone by. And England is a poorer country, I think, in that it is no longer Merrie England, as it was in the days of the Tudors and the Stuarts, but the England of many chimneys--in others words, the Workshop of the World. [Sidenote: SUMMER SOUNDS] Soft days followed Easter Sunday. The weather was exquisite sunshine and shower making a perfect combination. Burbidge was always busy. There was continually the summer sound of mowing. No longer, alas! the rhythmic swish of the scythe, but the twinkling click of the machine. Yet even this was delightful, for in the sound came the cry of summer. Everywhere the heads of the herbaceous plants in the border grew bolder and stronger. The beautiful burning bush, as my old gardener calls the _Dictamnus Fraxinella_, was then a foot high; and my white Martagon lilies and _Lilium Auratum_ were all springing up gaily from their mother earth strong and vigorous; whilst my Oriental poppies, of various colours, were rearing themselves up for a June glory. Then my pansies (the seed of which I had brought from Paris a year ago) were full of promise. How rich they will be, I said, blotched and mottled in different shades of purple, lavender, and chocolate brown, and each flower later will have a face of its own, with an almost human expression. Besides these, there were Hen and Chicken daisies, or red and pink Bachelor's Buttons, as they call them in Shropshire, and opening sprays of Bouncing Bess (which is our local name for the gay Valerian), wherever it could push its way between the old stone walls. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith_ The ABBEY RUINS.] I wandered round the garden in the Cloisters, with its lavabo and wrought-iron gates. On the lancet windows of the Leper's Chamber, white pigeons were cooing and disporting themselves, and running up and down along the level turf. Jackdaws amidst the ruins were hurrying to and fro on the wing, with grub or insect in their beaks. Above the chamber, where men said the service was heard by the sick, there was a mass of gold which shone like beaten metal against the cloudless sky. It was the wild wallflower in a sea of blossom. How busy all nature was--building, growing, blossoming, and budding. Certainly a fair spring morning is one of the undying joys of the world. Later on I found myself in the little kitchen garden. The later pears were then sheets of snow, and I noticed that an apple flower was beginning to turn pink on an espalier. Burbidge I found busily occupied in dividing the roots of the violets. All through the winter, when frosts bound the ground, he sent me in fragrant bunches of the double Neapolitan violet, varied by bouquets of the Czar, the Princess of Wales, and the red purple of Admiral Avalon. Now all the roots were being lifted from the frames, and little runners with minute fibrous roots planted, some eight inches apart, in shady corners. During the summer, Burbidge and his boys will cut off every runner or blossom that may appear on these plants, and keep them, to use his expression, "round as a nest." "I likes," he said, "to give 'em hearts like cabbages." The first week in September, the violet roots will be replaced in the frames "for winter blowing." In the mean time the frames are to be cleared, the soil renewed, and then sown with asters, zinnias, and my beautiful golden lettuces, that come over every year from the Austrian seedsman. Next to the frames, in little narrow beds, were lines of choice daffodils, and I stopped to look at them. They were of the largest and most effective kinds. There was Emperor, and Empress, Horsfieldi, Sir Watkin Wynn, Golden Spur, Mrs. Langtry, and beautiful Madame de Graaf, and the brilliant sunset glory of Orange Phoenix. They made a brave show and found great favour in my old gardener's eyes. "Nothing mean about they," he said, only the day before, complacently to me. "Look to the size. They be near the girth of roses, and fit for any nobleman's garden." The old man seemed to swell with pride as we looked at them together. I had not the heart to be disagreeable and to suggest that any should be plucked for vases, or to deck the altar bowls, and I saw that my old friend was relieved. A little later I walked up the trim path empty-handed and peeped into the gooseberry and currant cages. The cages are made of fine wire netting, fixed on poles, about twenty feet square, in which were planted currants and gooseberries, to save their fruit from the wild birds. Burbidge joined me. "So," he said, "they has nothing inside to rob them, not a 'nope'" (as he calls the bullfinch), "nor them mischievous 'poke-puddings'" (by which name some folks here call the tomtits) "can interfere." [Sidenote: A BULLFINCH CAN DO NO WRONG] Hearing my favourites, the bullfinches, attacked, I could not help saying something in their defence. "The cock 'nope,' as you call him, is so beautiful," I urged, "that surely he may have a few buds in spring, and later on get a little fruit? Besides," I added warmly, "many people now say that he does no damage, and that the buds, that he attacks, are already diseased, and, anyway, would bear no fruit." But at this Burbidge waxed wroth. "The nope," he retorted angrily, "be pure varmint for gardens, same as stoats be for poultry, and squirrels for trees; and as to his colour, 'tis like looks in lasses, it hath nought to do with character. I don't see things, marm, as you does. When yer sweats for a thing, there be no halves in the matter. What's a friend to my garden, I be a lover to; but what's foreign, I be a foreigner to," and the old man walked away in a huff. After "our bullfinch war," as Bess called it when I recounted to her later the little episode, I walked up the path that is edged by rows of double primroses. How lovely they were in the neatest of little clumps, white, yellow, and mauve, with here and there tufts of hen and chicken daisies, roots of the single blue primroses, brilliant polyanthuses, and the curious hose-in-hose variety, which an old South Country nurse of ours used to call "Jack-a-Greeners." A little further on, I saw some plants of the soft _Primula Cashmeriana_, which bore leaves which looked as if they had been powdered with milk of sulphur, and carried umbrella-like mauve heads of blossom. A little higher up the path I saw some fine plants of _Primula Japonica_ with its red whorls of blossom; and at the top of the garden I came across a line of beautiful auriculas. The most beautiful of all the primulas, I think, is "Les Oreilles d'Ours," as the French call these flowers, with their sweet distant smell, like downs covered with cowslips on dewy mornings, or golden apricots ripening on southern walls. As I passed back to the Abbey, I plucked a shoot off a black-currant bush. How fragrant the budding shoots were. They recalled the perfume of the bog myrtle on Scottish moors, only that the scent had something homely and useful, but none the less delicious. Ten minutes later, and I was seated before my embroidery. To-day I had a blue dragon to work. I tried to see and to reproduce in my mind's eye Burne Jones' wonderful tints of blue with brown shades and silver lights, and so the hours passed. [Sidenote: "A PATIENT HAS VIRTUES"] In the afternoon Bess visited Thady. "Mama," she cried, "I think Thady will soon be well, for all he was so lame on Sunday. You see he wants to get well so badly, and what people want badly they generally get. I took him some pudding and some cake, and Nana gave him some ointment. Nana," said Bess, presently, "seems quite kind now. Do you know, mamsie, since Thady has taken her medicine, and rubbed on her lily stuff, she seems quite to like Thady." "Ah, my little girl," I laughed, "you are discovering a very old truth. Nana has found a patient, and a patient always has virtues." Bess did not quite understand, but declared it was a good job that Nana had given up disliking Thady, for in Thady, Bess found a most delightful and useful friend. He had already made my little maid a whistle, and was then engaged in making her a crossbow, and he is a wonderful hand in whittling an ash or hazel stick in elaborate designs, all of which are delightful and rare accomplishments in Bess's eyes. All the week Bess ran up and down to the Red House. Bess repeated her verses for the _fête_ to Miss Weldon, and gained what her governess called "word accuracy," but all gestures and action Constance taught her, I heard. Besides this, I was told about the dance which was being practised for the great day by eight little town maidens in the disused room over the stables of the Red House, and of the music which Constance's nice parlourmaid played. Constance endeavoured to get eight little boys to dance also; but the little lads were too shy, what an old woman, speaking of her grandson, calls "too daffish and keck-handed to learn such aunty-praunty antics," and all that Constance could get in the way of male support was to induce eight little lads to look on, bend their knees, and bow at intervals, whilst the maidens sang and danced. Bess was full of her verses and of her white costume, and old Nana, for all that she grumbled much at first, got stage-fever at last in her veins, and told me "that none would look as well as her blessed lamb, and seeing what the play was, and who made the dresses, and where the flowers grew, she held it to be all foolish, overgrown, mealy-mouthed righteousness on old Hester's part to stick out so obstinate and audacious again' a harmless bit of childer's play." When I asked Burbidge if he and his men would get me some primroses and bunches of marsh marigolds, he was at first very wroth. "Do yer take me for a loseller, marm?" he said, using the old country word for an idler. "Do yer think that I have nought to do, but to stump through wood and field, pulling blows for a May folly?" But since the first outbreak he softened, and now he has begun to speak in a more kindly spirit, about fine primroses as grow above Homer steps, marsh marigolds as can be got near the Marsh Farm pool, and about cuckoo pint and bits of green fern, and I have little doubt that on May morning it will be found that my request has been granted. Burbidge and Nana will always do what we want them, only give them time, as Bess says, for my little minx, young as she is, has long discovered that with old friends, and particularly old servants, there is often a great deal of bark, but happily not much bite. One day it had been raining all the morning. Everything seemed growing. I could almost, as I looked out of the window, see the chestnut buds swelling, and the points of the yews were turning a reddish gold. Through a window I could hear the canaries singing, singing and filling the garden with melodious sounds. The sun had gently pierced the clouds at last, and here and there faint shades of delicate blue were to be seen. Suddenly, as I sat by the window plying my needle and admiring the rain drops glistening like crystals in the grass, I saw my little friend, Thady, below on the gravel walk. "What, Thady, you here!" I cried; for Thady, to use his mother's expression, was all himself again, bare-legged and as merry as a grig. [Sidenote: "BEGORRA, IT'S ME"] "Begorra, it's me," replied Thady, "me myself, and I've come to ask if yer will come a bird-nesting with me, some day?" And he added, with the courtesy that only can be found in an Irish imp, "'Twill be an honour and a pleasure to guide yer leddyship to the rarest nests in the country, and yer remember our talk some weeks ago?" So, after a little parley, it was agreed that the following day, a Saturday, if fine, we would take our luncheon into the woods, and that Thady should climb the trees, as we had previously proposed. We settled thus, the main point, for Thady, in his own language, "was the best man whatever at that sport." "Whilst you are climbing," I said, "we can look for rare flowers and ferns, and find what nests we can upon the ground." I asked Thady a minute later what nests he knew of. "Galore," he answered, grinning. And then proceeded to enumerate them: "A lintie (a linnet), a green grosbeak (greenfinch), a Harry redcap (goldfinch), a yellow yeorling by the roadside, a scobby (chaffinch), a lavrock (skylark), a cushie-doo (a wood pigeon), a cutty wren (common wren), a nanny washtail (pied wagtail) in the rocks, and two tom-titers of sorts. Then there be hawks," he called through the window, "and one by Ippekin's Cave as I don't rightly know, bluish and bigger than the wind-hover (kestrel) or the pigeon-hawk, not to make mention of throstles and black ouzels (blackbirds), which just jostle same as hips and haws in October, but they're hardly worth the point of raising of a foot to see." So our plans were made, and I looked forward to spending the morrow in the budding woods. Thady was to be our guide, but no eggs were to be taken. This was a matter of mortification to Thady. "Sure," he said, on another occasion, "I thought I would have made the little lady, this year, the prettiest necklace that ever was strung, fine and rare, for the May dance; and," he added, "yer leddyship must not forget that I have eaten of Miss Bess's blue egg, and so glad I would be to show her a bit of favour." However, I succeeded in making Thady give up the project of robbing the nests, by begging him to make me a whistle, which, as my little daughter declares, is a thing that might be useful to everybody--"to a lady, to a bishop, or even to a Member of Parliament." The next day was a day of glorious sunshine--gay and pure--one of those rare sweet days in spring, when it does not seem possible for "rain, or hail, or any evil thing to fall." Little Hals, to our joy, came over without governess or maid, only what Bess calls "under his own care," which she declared was best, because there was then no need to be naughty; and Miss Weldon, to the joy of all, vanished for the day to Shrewsbury; so, to quote my little girl, "all seemed happy, and everything just pure fun." As the old church clock struck eleven we started. The groom boy, Fred, led Jill, the Stretton pony, bearing a basket strapped on a saddle, which contained a simple luncheon, and off we went into the woods. [Sidenote: AWAY TO THE EDGE WOOD] We started gaily; there were no trains to catch--always a subject of congratulation--and we only left word that we should be back for tea. It was true that old Nana had black prognostications about what "that villain Thady would do" (for since Thady was cured, her kindly interest in him had ceased). But I laughed at her fears. "Nan," I cried out as we left, "we will all take care of ourselves, and even Jill shall come back safe and sound." We walked along the town, Bess and Hals running in front, hand-in-hand, and Thady and I following leisurely behind. In a few minutes we had left the town behind us and were wandering up a lane, cut in the lime rock, bordered with yews in places, and between high hedgerows. Hals begged that we might begin to bird-nest at once; but Thady, who was master of the ceremonies, shook his head. "Best wait, begorra, for the Edge Wood, sir," he exclaimed; "that's the mightiest place in the county for all that wears feathers." So we marched on steadily to the great strip of wood which is known in Shropshire as the Edge Wood. This strip runs for many miles, is very precipitous in places, and consists of groves of oaks, patches of yews here and there, hollies--the haunts of woodcocks--and in many parts a rough tangle of hazel is to be found. It is a sweet wild place, little visited save by bird and beast. In one place the woodcutters had cut for some hundred yards, and in the cleared spaces the ground was covered with primroses, ground ivy, and the uncurled fronds of the lady fern--still brown and crinkly. Groups of lords and ladies reared themselves up amongst their sombre leaves, and patches of dog's mercury nodded and whispered with their cords of green grain. Overhead, the larch in a few branches was breaking into emerald splendour, whilst pink tassels at the extremities trembled here and there. Squirrels leapt into the trees and vanished at our approach, and once or twice we heard, like a distant curse, the rancorous guttural cry of the jay, and saw one disappear into the undergrowth, a jewelled flash of turquoise splendour. In a ride below, I saw a magpie hopping about, its long green-black tail bobbing up and down on the grass. At this sight Thady gravely took off his cap and saluted him, saying aloud-- "One for sorrow, Two for mirth, Three for a wedding, Four for a birth." And then cried out in a tone of excitement, "Look out, yer leddyship, begorra, look out for another; for it is mirth to-day and no sorrow whatever that we must have." Then we plunged into the heart of the wood. Fred and Jill alone kept to the path. How lush it was, that soft moist turf in April, all teeming with moisture and freshness--not even the driest summer sun can parch or dry the soil of the Edge Wood. Here and there I saw little plantations of self-sown ash amidst beds of downy moss, and everywhere hundreds and thousands of little infinitesimal plants, struggling for existence. As I walked along I noted open glades, which later would be rosy with pink campion, or purple with the stately splendour of the foxglove. Now and then a bird flew away, and I saw at intervals the white scut of a frightened rabbit. [Sidenote: BIRD-NESTING WE GO] Suddenly Thady stopped before a yew tree. Hals and Bess followed, panting and crying out eagerly, "Where, where?" for Thady had discarded his jacket, and in a twinkling had thrown his arms round the tree. In a second he was aloft. "A lintie's nest," he whispered, and then peered in. A minute later he called out, "Two eggs." "Will you bring one down?" we said in chorus. For all answer, Thady nodded, slipped an egg into his mouth, and then proceeded to descend. We looked at the little egg that Thady held out on the palm of his hand. It was of a pale bluish white, speckled and streaked with lines of purplish brown. After we had all peered over it, the egg was put back solemnly by Thady. A little further on, and Thady again halted. "Here it be, yer leddyship," he cried, in a high treble; and there, sure enough, looking upward, we discerned a nest of twigs and roots. It was quite low down, and I was able easily to lift up the children to get a peep themselves. The little nest was lined with hair and wool stolen from the neighbouring fields, but as yet there were no eggs. "A nope's (bullfinch's) sure enough," said Thady, dogmatically. Then on we wandered until we paused below a fir tree. Below the bole of the tree there was no herbage, for the fir leaves had fallen like needles and had pierced and stabbed the grass to death--so it was quite bare now, not a leaf, or even a patch of moss; as bare, in fact, as a village playground. Suddenly we heard overhead a loud, ringing clap of wings, and as we looked up, we saw an ill-made nest of sticks, and two eggs, which last we could see glistening inside, like two button mushrooms. For a minute I had a vision of a big departing bird of a soft lavender grey, and as I looked, Thady called out, "Quice," which is the Shropshire name for the wood-pigeon. Thady was anxious to mount the tree and bring me down an egg for closer inspection; but I begged him not to do so, for the Cushat-Doos, as he tells me he has heard them called in the North Country, are very shy birds in a wild state, and I have been told will never return to a nest where the hand of man has trifled with eggs or nest. I lingered, looking up at the shining round pink eggs with the light glimmering through the twigs; and then I mounted up the hill, which was very hard work, for both children were a little weary and hot, and I went up the incline, pulling both up as best I could. Mouse kept close to my heels. She had had dark suspicions ever since we entered the wood, and was convinced of the existence, I felt sure, of robbers, footpads, wolves, and also of innumerable vague dangers, and alarms. We passed a blackbird's nest, but Thady waved his hand in lofty disdain, and refused to pull back the bough so that we might look at the eggs. "'Tisn't for dirt like that that I'll trouble yer leddyship and the young squire to spier round," he exclaimed. "The black ouzel is just a conny among feathered folk, or what blackberries be 'mongst the fruit." Thady seemed to know every inch of the ground. "It isn't in woods or field that I forget myself," he remarked to me, when I commended him for his knowledge of the Edge. "Devil a bit," he said, "if I have ever lost my way along, or missed a mark or forgotten the bend of a stick; but," he added, in a tone of contrition, "'tis in the book larning and figures that Thady Malone cannot always discern rightly." At last, after much puffing and panting, we reached the top of the hill. [Sidenote: THE SCOBBY'S NEST] "Like enough we'll find a scobby's nest in the hedge," said Thady. Then he went on to say, "They be wonderful builders be scobbys; 'tight and nanty,' as folks say here." And sure enough, a little further on, fixed in a branch of blackthorn, we saw a little nest of exquisite beauty. Outside it appeared to be built almost entirely of lichen, pulled off the bark of trees; whilst inside it was lined with hair and feathers, woven together with marvellous dexterity. There were three eggs, all of a reddish pale grey, blotched here and there with vinous patches. As we stood watching the nest, the handsome little cock chaffinch eyed us anxiously. With a quick movement he turned round, and we caught the flash of his white wings. "A bobsome, joyous little gent," said Thady; "a scobby, I have heard folks say, is the last bird to give over singing in summer." Then we sat down to luncheon. "We must eat," Bess cried with conviction; "seeing so many nests has made me feel eggy with hunger." All round us the birds filled the thicket with the joy of their carols. "The place fair swarms with them," observed Thady, "but come a week or two, we shall have all the foreigners over." By which he, doubtless, meant the arrival of all the delicious warblers that come from the South in spring, not to mention many of the cock chaffinches, most of the pipits, the yellow water-wagtails, the gorgeous redstarts, and the beautiful turtle, or Wrekin doves. [Illustration: NEST OF GREENFINCH.] [Illustration: NEST OF RING-OUZEL. _Photos by Mrs. New._] Listening to the different notes, we sat down and got our luncheon, which Bess and Hal, who had acquired the appetite of hunters, declared was fit for any king, and believed that even Nan, if she had been there, wouldn't grumble. "When I'm at home," said Bess, after a pause, "I eat mutton, but here I call it the flesh of sheep," and as she spoke she put upon Hal's knees another slice. Hal looked at her and retorted gravely, "Mutton isn't good, but the flesh of sheep is fit for a general." Thady, overhearing these remarks, exclaimed, "Begorra, it is a poor place where Thady Malone cannot eat to your leddyship's health." And added, "Deed, I'm like Mrs. Langdale's chickens, I could peck a bit wherever it was." So saying, he fell heartily to work on some huge beef sandwiches which had been prepared for him and Fred, by Auguste. A few minutes later, the girths of the saddle were loosened and Jill was allowed to graze at her own free will, nipping and cropping the tender grass with avidity. "Mamsie," said Bess, after the last scrap of chocolate had been eaten, and the last Blenheim orange apple munched, "have you no fairy-story to tell us, for you know, this is a real place for fairy-tales." Then the children crept under my cloak, and I rambled on aloud about princes and princesses, giants and dragons, enchanted castles, good and evil fairies, and knights and ladies. Thady approached our group and listened also. "'Tis better nor a theatre," he was kind enough to say, as I came to an end at last, with the happy marriage of the prince and princess, and a description of the royal festivities on that occasion. "Begorra," he exclaimed, "I'd like to be a man, and fight dragons and giants. Fightin' is the life for me." Then we got up, packed the basket, and prepared to return homeward across the fields. Jill was caught, but could with difficulty be girthed, so enlarged had she become by several hours of happy browsing; but after a struggle the saddle and basket are put on, and we turned our heads homewards. Hals had been silent for the last few moments. "Well," I said, "what is it?" "I too should like to fight," he answered, "but it must be on a horse and in armour." [Sidenote: THE GLORY OF AULD OIRELAND] "'Tis all one, sir," replied Thady, cheerily, "so long as yer get a stomach full of blows and can give good knocks back. Fighting," he explained, "is what makes the difference between boys and girls, and it is the glory of auld Oireland." We talked away and walked homeward. There was a nest of a cutty wren in a juniper bush, which Thady knew of, and a tomtit's in a hollow tree, beautifully made of a mass of feathers, and in it were many tiny eggs, almost too small to touch without breaking, and Fred lifted both children up to see. A little further on, Thady pointed away to a distant orchard that encircled two lonely cottages nestling against the opposite hill. "There," he said, "be the nest of a Harry red-cap." But our energy had died away for bird-nesting. "It shall be for another day," said Bess. And then added dreamily, "I didn't think I ever could have seen bird-nests enough, but I think some other play now would be nice." So we walked on, Hals leading the way, and Thady bringing up the rear and whistling, as he went along, the Shan Van Vocht. Thus we returned home, Bess and Hals riding on Jill in turns. The cry of the cuckoo pursued us like a voice out of dreamland, while the scents of the sweet spring day were wafted to us on a hundred eddying breezes. In the evening I found a note from Constance at the Abbey. She sent me a full list of the flowers she proposed working on the quilts, and added, "What do you think of these words about sleep?-- "'Sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids.'--_The Odyssey._ "'Sleep and death.'--_The Iliad._ "'Death and his brother sleep.'--SHELLEY. "'Sleep thy fill, and take thy soft repose.'--QUARLES. "'Sleep in peace and wake in joy.'--SCOTT, _Lord of the Isles._ "'Never sleep the sun up. Rise to prevent the sun.'--VAUGHAN." When I had written to Constance, I thought of bed in a happy sleepy state of mind. As I brushed out my hair, I went over our pleasant long day in the woods, away from men, and noise, and even home. A day spent amidst birds and beasts, looking at nests, resting on mossy banks, and seeing only the sweet, sprouting things of field and lane, is a delightful thing. Is there anything better than a day out in the heart of the country? As I slipped into bed, Bess's last words came back to me as she went off to her cot. "Is it really very wicked, mamsie, to take nests and eggs?--for Fred says he has done it scores and scores of times, and he doesn't see no use in such things if they can't make sport for young ladies and gentlemen." "Some day you will understand," I had replied. "One cannot know some things when one is very young." And I have often noticed with children, that, up to a certain age, the uneducated view of everything is the sympathetic and natural one; later, to a few, the light does come. CHAPTER V _MAY_ "Come lasses and lads, take leave of your dads, And away to the May-pole hie; For every he has got him a she, And a minstrel standing by. For Willy has gotten his Jill, And Johnny has got his Joan To jig, to jig it, jig it up and down." _Old May Song._ All the morning Bess had been beside herself, jumping up and down, and running round in gusts of wild excitement. At noon the _fête_ was really to take place, and at that hour Constance and her band were to come down by a back way through the town. The piano had already been moved on the bowling green, between the yew hedges. In the distance I had watched Burbidge superintending, and I am sure grumbling freely by the ominous shakes of his head. Our old servant had been in a great state of alarm about his lawns since the dawn, and the passing of the piano under the great yew arch had been to him a matter of grave anxiety "They be centuries in growing, be yews," he said to me, "and the commonest piano as is made, can break 'em." However, in spite of his hostile tone, Burbidge and "his boys" went out quite early and brought back an abundance of fiery marsh marigolds from the marshes, great sprays of budding beech, and a few branches of opening hawthorn; besides which they gathered bunches of primroses, the last of the season that were still in flower in damp woodlands and against northern banks, and also purple heads of meadow orchises. "She'll be fine," Burbidge told Nan, "but it be a sad waste of time pulling wild things that come up all by themselves, when we might have been puttin' taters in or wheelin' on manure." At this old Nan had waxed wroth and had exclaimed, "There's none too old to idle sometimes, Burbidge." "Ay," had replied our old gardener in a surly tone, "but let me idle in my own way." However, for all his apparent hostility, I had an idea at the back of my head, that Burbidge would be concerned if the little _fête_ did not go off well; and I believed, in spite of his angry tones, that he and his boys would deck the May-stang and order all rightly for me. I was not deceived, for as I looked out of the drawing-room windows, I saw a little later the gardeners all at work, putting up the May-pole. In a little while it was finely decked with gay flowers, and Célestine and Nana, for once united in a common cause, brought out many yards of coloured ribbon, which they tied in knots of pink, red, white, blue, and yellow amongst the flowers. These floated like a hundred little flags in the breeze, and seemed to fill the air with gaiety. [Sidenote: DECKED FOR THE FÊTE] When this operation was at last completed, the dressing of Bess began in earnest, and my little maid for once sat quite still, and allowed mademoiselle to brush and fluff her hair till it stood out like the mane of a Shetland pony. This done, Nana put her on a little white bodice and paniers, and sewed on bunches of primroses and white violets, and then crowned her with a crown of golden marsh marigolds that the deft fingers of Célestine had twisted together. "Thee'll be crowned, dear," said the old nurse softly, "with the lucky flower." Then all the maids from upstairs and downstairs crowded to the nursery, and Bess received me graciously, looking like a little fairy. In her hand she held her sceptre as May Queen, round which was wound a sprig of ivy, and one little bunch of violets. All the time my little girl had been dressing, her lips had never ceased to move. I asked her what was the matter? "My verses, my verses," was her reply. When all was completed, and the bunches re-sewn in places so that none could fall, Nana looked out of a passage window. "They be all a-comin' to see my lamb," she cried. And sure enough there were old men in smocks, old beldames in quaint old black sun-bonnets, and all the children from the National School. On they streamed together. Then Constance and her dancers appeared, some of them running to escape observation, and all attired in waterproofs, so that nobody might see the splendour of their festive apparel. The garlands on their heads even were covered with Shetland shawls. They had slipped down by the churchyard and so into the ground, to try and gain unseen the back of the great yew hedge and walnut tree. "We are all ready," cried Constance, as we made our way out and gained her group. I looked at her band of children. "Some will be dancers," she said, "in yellow and green, some in blue, and the rest in cherry or scarlet. Behind her little lasses stood eight little lads in smocks, with soft felt hats, looped up with ribbons, and each gay bachelor had a posy knot, like the bouquets coachmen used to wear at a drawing-room in Queen Victoria's time. "They will dance," whispered Constance to me in an aside, and pointed to her little swains, "another year, and then the little girls will not have all the fun to themselves." Then there was a hush, and the Shetland shawls and the cloaks were all taken off in a jiffey, and at a signal given, Dinah started playing on the piano. The old tune across the lawn sounded like a far-off tinkle. Dinah made a pretty picture. She was dressed like a village maiden of the eighteenth century. On her head she had a mobcap, across her shoulders was folded a fichu of lawn, and on her hands were a pair of old black silk mittens that belonged long years ago to Constance's grandmother. All the people stood aside as the players and dancers made their way to the centre of the lawn. Then the singers stood by the piano and started in unison an old May song. The sun shone forth brightly, and a throstle joined in from a damson tree at the top of his voice. There was a general sense of joy. The young voices sounded sweet and clear, and all the meadows and distant hills seemed bathed in a blue mist. At last the singing died away. Then Bess, with bright eyes, but somewhat nervous steps, advanced and repeated her verses. She spoke as clearly as she could. Nana looked at her, as if she could eat her up with pride, and afterwards declared that Bess had spoken like an archbishop; and even old Sally Simons, who is believed to be deafer than any post on the estate, affirmed that she could hear "'most every word." Across the budding sward Milton's beautiful verses in praise of May seemed to ring in my ears. In the far meadows, the rooks were cawing amongst the poplars, and over the Abbey pool a few swallows were skimming and catching flies-- [Sidenote: "HAIL! BOUNTEOUS MAY"] "Hail! bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire." The world seemed young again--old age a myth, and nature exceedingly fair. At last Bess's lines were ended, and my little maid made her curtesy and tripped back to me. Then the dancers stepped forward and the music broke out afresh into a merry jingle. They stood round the May-pole, advanced solemnly and made profound reverences. A few seconds later, the tinkling of the piano grew quicker and quicker, for the eight little maidens had all caught hold of each other's hands, and round and round they went as fast as youth and gaiety could take them. The people clapped, and the old folks broke forth into shrill laughter. Old Timothy beat the gravel with his stick, till Burbidge glared at him and muttered something disagreeable about "folks not being able to behave themselves;" whereupon my old guest hung his head and began to cough asthmatically. The dance pleased all so well, that Constance and her little _corps dramatique_ were obliged to go through the whole of it again. "It be better nor a ballet" said old Timothy. "I seed one once years agone at Shrewsbury Theatre, after the Crimean war; but this here be dancing on the green--and not dancing for money, but for pure joy." So away the little dancers footed it again. Even the little lads, who hitherto had remained stolid and apparently indifferent, caught something of the enthusiasm of the spectators, for at intervals they bowed with eagerness, and pointed and laughed at the little maidens, and ejaculated aloud, as they had been taught by Constance to do at the rehearsals, "Good, good, well done, Mistress Betty; excellently, madam," and so on, till, as a fond mother said, "Anybody might think as they had been born play-actors, for they took to mumming same as widdies (young ducks) do to water." When all was over, and even the tinkling piano was heard no more, Fremantle and footmen bearing trays of cake, beer, and milk appeared on the scene. As to the children, we made them stand in long lines on the paths, and gave them slices of cake and buns, and drinks of milk in the blue and white mugs of the country; but before they fell to, they repeated in chorus the old grace which Constance had found in praise of May merry-making. At last, not even the youngest little boy could eat any more, and gradually all my guests bowed and curtsied, and left the lawn, but old Timothy who was seized with a violent fit of coughing, leant feebly on his stick, and looked at me piteously out of his rheumy eyes. "'Tis the rheumatics as has got hold of me," he said, between two fits of coughing. "They be terrible companions, be rheumatics, worse than snakes nor wasps, and allus with 'un summer and winter. Rheumatics," he added wheezily, "be like burrs, they hangs on to yer all seasons." "Come in for a bit," I said, "and rest by the fire." Young blood is warm, but the sun hasn't much warmth yet. So I led old Timothy into the housekeeper's room, whilst kind Auguste made him on the gas stove a "bon bouillon" and prepared for him a glass of spiced beer. "I can't say, marm, why I took on like that," said old Timothy, humbly. "It cumed like all of a sudden, and I shook like a leaf, and a kind of a swim-swammy sense mastered me, and dwang-swang, I think I should have found myself on the turf, if you hadn't taken me in and comforted me." As the old man spoke, I saw that some colour was coming back into his old cheeks. He felt cheered by his drop of broth, and when he had sipped of the warm ale his tongue began to wag. "To-day," he said, "put me to mind of the old days when the world ran merrily at Wenlock, and for the matter of that, all through the countryside. They had holidays, they had, afore they had invented trains, trams, and motors. There war the Wakes proper, and the Wisheng Wells--all sports and jollity after good work." [Sidenote: "ONCE I GRINNED THROUGH A HORSE-COLLAR"] Then old Timothy proceeded to tell me how, in the old times, "they used to clap up booths and have shows, and dances. My grandam used to tell how they had in her time Morris dancers and play-acting, and I remember," he continued, "a rare bit of fun. 'Twas to grin through a horse-collar at Church Stretton. When I war a lad," said old Timothy, "'twas accounted a fine thing to be able to make the horriblest face in the town--next best to being the sweetest scraper on a fiddle or a fine singer in a catch. I was never much of a musician," pursued my old guest, regretfully, "but for downright, hugeous horror put into a human face, I war bad to beat." Then, after a pause, he went on to say, "I mind me there war St. Milburgha's Wake at Stoke. There used to be pretty sports there. The lads used to come in smocks and dance. They used to foot it sharp to old country dances, cheery with lot of jumping, skipping, and bobbing. Men used to say 'twas in honour of St. Milburgha. I don't hold to saints, as a rule," explained Timothy; "they be mostly old bones, nails, and useless rubbish; but I draws a difference between Shropshire and the rest, and I believes in Shropshire saints proper, same as in my own parish church and in grandam's grave." After a few minutes, the old man went on to tell me about the Well Wakes. "Folks used to flock to 'em," he said. "They used to meet and have a jolly time. There war the Beach Wake, near against Chirbury. There they went in great numbers, and the best class of farmers and their wives. There war a Whirl-stone then, but on Wake Sunday it turned all by itself, Old Jackson as sold the best ale allus used to say. "Then when us could, us went to the Raven's Bowl and to the Cuckoo's Cup on the Wrekin at the proper times. God Almighty, we war taught to believe, kept they full of water for his birds, and 'twar there that we Shropshire lads, seventy years agone and more, used to go and wish, when we had a mind to wed a wench--seventy years agone," the old man lingered over the words, repeating them softly. "One summer mornin' I got up," he continued, "when the dew was lying like jewels on the turf and wet the grass it war so that yer could wring it out with a cloth. I war up betimes, and I walked, and walked till I got to the spot. There warn't many places in Shropshire as I didn't know then," Timothy exclaimed with pride; and added with enthusiasm, "yer gets to know the betwixts and betweens of everything, sure enough, when yer be earth-stopper to the hunt. Dad warn't by trade, but Uncle Mapp war--Peregine Mapp, as us used to call un--as lived behind Muckley Cross and war the best ount-catcher as ever I knowed, rat-catcher, and stoat-trapper, and death to varmint generally. Well, he took me on from rook scarin' for Farmer Burnell; I lived with he till I war twelve. They talks now of eddication, but 'tis the eddication of wood and hill as be the right 'un to make a man of yer." [Sidenote: THE EDUCATION OF WOOD AND HILL] "Yes, Timothy," I said; and to bring him back to his first subject, I added, "but you were telling me about your walk to the Wrekin, and how you drank from the Raven's and Cuckoo's bowls there." "Ay, ay, sure I was," replied the old man, and a gleam of light shot into his lustreless eyes. So saying he rubbed his hands softly before the blazing logs and went on-- "Well, it war the longest day of the year. That night in June, I've heard say, when they used to light fires on the hill tops, and when the men used to sing, and some of 'em used to leap through the fires and call it Johnnie's Watch; but the squires, when they took to planting on the hillsides, forbid that sport, and there war somethin' to be said on that score, for I believe myself it frightened foxes. "Well, sure enough I walked, as I said, to the Wrekin over the Severn by Buildwas Bridge, and up beyond near Little Wenlock and through Wenlock Wood. I war desperate sweet on Susie Langford--I hadn't hardly opened my mouth to her, but the sight of her remained with me, night and day, same as the form of a good horse does to a young man who can't afford to buy him--and I stood on the heights of the great hill, and I drank out of the bowls and wished and wished, and made sure as I should get my heart's desire, for grandam had allus said, 'Him as goes to the Wrekin on midsummer morning, gains his wish as sure as a throstle catches a worm on May morning.' Them, her used to say, 'as goes to the Wrekin on the May Wakes, gets nought but a jug of ale and a cake.' Well, I think I got nought but water, and never a cake that mornin', for little the wish or the bowls did for me." "Did you mind very much?" I asked, watching the shadow that swept over his face. "Did I mind?" replied old Timothy, vehemently. "Some three months arter, when they told me that Susie war agoin to marry the miller in the Dingle, I laid me down on the cold ground in the old Abbey Church, and thought I should have died of the pure howgy misery of the whole job. Grandam she gave me all she could to comfort me. I got thin as a lath--she gave me can-doughs and flap-jacks and begged apples to slip into dumplins, off the neighbours; and her brewed me a drop of beer from the water from the church roof. But it warn't nothing to me, yer can't comfort a man by his stomach, when he be in love. "Anton Ames war a hugeous fellow and one of the best with fist or gloves, or I'd have killed 'un," broke out old Timothy, "for he seemed to poison the whole countryside for me." "But you got over her loss at last," I ventured to say, "though you have never married." "One do," replied the old man grimly. "There be a time for everything--for women, for posy knots, dancing, and all the kickshaws. They be all toys, mere toys. 'Tis only sport and beer as lasts." As he spoke the old man looked gloomily into the fire and warmed his wrinkled hands afresh. "And Susie?" I could not refrain from asking; "what happened to her?" "Her married and reared a pack of childer," answered Timothy, "and when Anton fell off his cart one dark night from Shrewsbury Market, they said her cried, but cried fit to wash away her eyes. But her got comforted in time--they mostly do, does women; and then, after a bit, her took a chapman. They often do, for number two I've noticed," continued Timothy, meditatively; "for chapmans have ready tongues, and be oily and cheeky in one. And Sue her had a bit of siller, and they married sharp off, at Munslow Church, I heard, and Sue her used to go hawking with Gipsy Trevors, as they called 'im, and they used to pass through Bridgenorth, Stretton, and up by Ludlow, same as if her had never been born respectable or had rubbed bright an oak dresser, or swept a parlour carpet." "What did you do at the Wakes, and how long did they last?" I asked as old Timothy relapsed into silence. [Sidenote: OLD SHROPSHIRE PLEASURES] "Oh, they was most part a week," answered the old man. "There war too much fun then in folks, to let the fun die out so quick as it does now. Now, if a squire has a cricket-match, 'tis all over in no time. Piff-paff like a train through a tunnel. There's nought now but a smack, and a taste of jollity, and it dies with daylight. When I was a boy, it was altogether different. Us could work, and us could play, and us liked to take our fill, same as young bullocks on spring grass. Us used to dance and sing, run races, and jump for neckties and hat-bands, and play kiss-in-the-ring, and manage," said old Timothy, with a twinkle in his eye, "to stand by a pretty lass then, and to wrestle and box besides. They war merry times." And here his voice sank almost to a whisper, "And then there was cock-fightin'." "Cock-fightin'?" I enquired. "Have you ever seen much of that?" "Lord love yer!" retorted Master Theobalds, with kindly contempt. "Of course I have, and a prettier, more gentlemanly sport I b'aint acquainted with. I mind me of the good old time, when every squire had his own main of cocks, and many war the farmers as had a good clutch, and great war the pride of the missus in rearin' a good 'un round the Clee, and over at Bridgenorth. Folks used to say at Ludlow, as there were some as thought more of their cocks, than of their own souls. Why, marm, when I war a little un, we should have thought a town a poor benighted one-horse place as hadn't got its cock-pit. There used," continued old Timothy, "to be a fine place beyond what is now the vicarage, where they used to fight 'em regularly on Easter Monday, and at the May Fair at Much Wenlock. Every serving-man as had a touch of sport in his blood used to get leave to go 'cocking,' as they called it then, and a right merry sport it war, sittin' fine days on the spring grass, and seeing two game uns go tooth and nail for each other." "Did they put spurs on them?" I asked the old man. "Of course they did, and weighed 'em." And then old Timothy added, "Scores of times I've put on the spurs myself to oblige a squire, or a kindly farmer as had given me a jog back from the meet, or a lift on, when I war searchin' after a terrier." "Was there not a belief that a cock hatched in an owl or magpie's nest was sure to have luck in the ring?" I asked. [Sidenote: THE COCKFIGHTS OF THE PAST] "Sure there war," answered Timothy, with conviction. "I remember hearin' of one, Owen by the Clee, as had a cock that he allus swore had been reared by an owl; and Davies, near Munslow, had a famous green-tailed bird, that he used to say was hatched in a pie's nest. I cannot say for sure how it war," said the old man, "but sartain I be that them war the two best birds as ever I seed--let 'em be reared as they might be. They war two upstanding birds, tall in the leg, long, lean heads, and born game. No white feather in they. There war many," continued the old man, "who tried to get luck in all ways, and stopped at nothing. Some gave 'em chopped beef afore fightin', and many beat up an egg in their meal to give 'em courage and strength. And then"--and here old Timothy paused--"there war other ways." "What ways?" I asked with curiosity. "Well," and my old guest sank his voice to a whisper, "there war some on Easter Sunday as took the Sacrament, as took it at no other time." "But what had that to do with cock-fighting?" I asked. "Why, jist this," and Timothy's voice became hardly audible. "They drank the wine, but saved the bread, for some believed that a cock that had eaten consecrated bread afore he went into the ring, war bound to win, as the devil fought for 'im himself." "What a horrible sacrilege!" I could not refrain from exclaiming. "That's what folks wud say now," agreed Timothy, complacently; "but there war many as didn't feel that then. Times be different. It war wrong, I suppose," he added, "but the sport war that strong in Shropshire men then, they wud ha' raced angels for pence and fought with Bibles, if so be folks would have laid on bets." But after a pause, he added, "They didn't all go that far; some only bought dust from church chancels that they threw on their bird's feathers, or chucked a pinch into the bags, and there never came no harm from that, for it gave the sextons and vergers a lucky penny, and made use of what otherwise would have been let lie on the midgeon heap. And even parsons didn't themselves interfere there, 'cause the practice made sextons and church officials easy to find as nuts in the Edge Wood." Then I turned, and asked the old man about old Squire Forester's hounds. "Ay, they war grand ones." And my old guest's eyes flashed with enthusiasm. And then old Timothy went on to ask me if I had ever heard of Tom Moody, "as great a devil as ever rode a horse. There war none to beat Tom--Tom war whipper-in, and then huntsman, and bred a rider. One day he rode, as a little lad, an ugly cob with a pig-bristled mane. Somehow Tom hung on, jumped with the best, and never fell, though the leps that day, they said, were hugeous. I never seed Tom myself," continued Timothy, "but grandam war his own cousin right enough, and it war a proud moment for any lad to clasp hands with old Tom. There war many then less proud to know a bishop or a peer, than to know Tom. "The old squire, when he seed the lad ride like that, said at the finish-- "'Will you come back and whip in for me, for yer be the right sort?' "'Will I, yer honour? Sure I will,' said Tom, and his ugly mug broke out like May blows in sunshine, a friend standing by told us. Tom and the squire they never parted till Tom war buried under the sod of Barrow churchyard. "Up and down dale, war Moody's way. Nothing lived before him. He never stopped for hedge or ditch. Often 'tis told of 'im that he used to take guests of the squire's back to Shifnal, where they met the coach for London. Then Tom would drive his prime favourite in the yellow gig. He counted his neck for nothing, and didn't set no store on theirs, and they did say he would lep pikes and hedges same as if he war hunting, and never injured tongue of buckle or stitch of a strap." [Illustration: RUINS OF WENLOCK ABBEY IN 1778. _From an Engraving after a Drawing by Paul Sandby, R.A._] "Was that possible?" I exclaimed in amazement. "Lor bless yer, mam, everythin' war possible with Tom. They said here he war a devil incarnate on a horse, or in his shay, and nothing could stop him. Folks said he loved his old horse better than his soul." "What was the name of his horse?" [Sidenote: "OLD SOUL" TO RIDE] "'Old Soul,' right enough," answered Timothy; "a great lean beaste, sixteen hands and more. Any amount of bone and not a square inch of flesh, with a docked tail and a wicked wall eye. He kicked and bit, did Old Soul, as if he war the great Satan himself; and I've heard 'em say at the kennels, that there war none but Tom and one other man about the place as dared go near him to dress him down, for he would savage any one when he had a mind. Heels up, and ears back, and his eye the colour of a yule log at Christmastide, those were his ways. Yet Tom at covert side thought mountains of him. 'Old Soul and I must get to heaven together,' he used to say, 'for what the old chap wud do without me, or I without he, 'twould puzzle me to think. And 'tis the wickedest, cutest old devil that ever man sat across,' Tom used to swear, 'but if a man's got a spice of the true hunter in him, he blesses God to be on such a horse when hounds be running, devil or no devil.' "Once," continued Timothy, "I heard as Tom war lost. They hunted for 'un everywhere down beyond Kenley, where they had been in the morning. In those days the country there war very marshy in the winter time, for there wasn't a bit of draining. Well, I've heard it said as Tom went in, and it happened in this way. Tom war leading his horse, but the horse war wiser than Tom, for feelin' the ground shaky, he jerked up his head sudden like, and snapped the bridle and got away. Tom, he tried to leap out of the bog, but he couldn't, for sure he war sucked in and kept fast prisoner in the clay. "When the squire and the pack got back to the kennels there war no Tom. 'Hullo! where be Tom?' cried the squire, and he got anxious, for never in the born days of man had Tom not turned up. They called and they sent out riders, and they shouted like scholards out on a holiday, but nothin' of Tom could they hear. So out the squire and the faithful hunt they set, with a fresh pack, and fresh horses, and only a lick down of somethin' to keep the soul in 'em. On they went, the squire leadin' like a lord on his white-legged chestnut. Only this time it warn't no fox-hunting, but a man as they war searchin' after. "On they rode across Blakeway, beyond Harley, then turning straight westwards they got to the wild country, and they rode round, I've heard say, almost to Church Stretton, up to the foot of the Caradoc; and sure enough, just as the squire war about to give up the job and creep home to get a bit of supper, and get dogs and men to their beds, they heard, as I'm a Christian man, somethin' a-croaking and calling 'Tally-ho! tally-ho!' but so hoarse, and strange, and misty-like, that it seemed no real voice, but whispers from a ghost. [Sidenote: THE MIDNIGHT CHASE] "One of the whipper-ins, a small white-haired little chap as they used to call 'Soap,' because he looked so clean and peart, and was a pet-like with the lasses, began to shiver and call out 'Lord 'a mercy, let's hunt the fox, but leave alone devils and Herne the Hunter, and such like.' But the squire, he never turned a hair, and he called out, 'No bed, or rest for me till we've found Tom,' and he rode on on his chestnut; and then Jack Pendrell, what was a groom, he called out too, 'Where the squire goes, I go,' and he set spurs into his grey; and then they followed on, hounds and men, like a covey of partridges. And all of a sudden, I have heard 'em say (for it war the talk of the country-side for many days), Old Dancer gave a whimper and then Regent followed suit, and then Butterfly and Skylark threw in their bell notes, and away the whole hunt burst like steam. They barely seemed to touch the ground, but ran like mad, as hounds do in a killing scent. The squire fairly split the chestnut, Tom Trig and Bob Buckson followed close behind, and they rode as if the devil was at their heels. And all the while the voice kept calling, hullooing like a spirit in a tomb, only fainter and fainter--a kind of unearthly screech like a raven dooming a Christian across a churchyard. At last two hounds ran in, and the squire leapt from his horse, which steamed like a chimney, and there they found Tom sucked up in the ground fit to die, and the wind pretty nearly out of his body. He looked like a ghost when they got him out. He must have perished long before, he told 'em, if it hadn't been that he had found a stout handful of grass by which he had hung on, and called for his life. "Well, the long and the short of it was, when they hauled him out--which they did by ropes and knotting their handkerchiefs together--they put him on an old dun pony. But Tom war that silly and faint, that they had to tie him on to keep him from falling, and so they got him home. "When they got back to Willey, the squire had him taken straight to his own bed, and clapt inside. 'Tom,' he said, 'don't yer die; yer drink and yer bain't worth much, but fox-hunting in Shropshire can't live without yer.' And," continued old Timothy, "Tom declared then he felt fit to die of glory at the thought as he, Tom, and fox-hunting war one and the same thin' in Shropshire. Well, Tom got round, for all his chill and lying in the ground six mortal hours, but he never war the same man again. The squire spared no expense on him, and made him take the same medicines as he took himself, and gave him foreign wines, though they do say as Tom would have liked old ale better." "When did old Tom die at last?" I asked. "I cannot precisely remember, but I've heard it war in 1796 or thereabouts. He war no great age, but he had lived fast and went to bed mellow, as fellows used to do then. Well, ma'am, when the doctor gave up hope, it wasn't long as Tom was ill, for once out of the saddle he hadn't much to live for, as I've heard 'em say. The days seemed mortal long to Tom, lyin', as he said, mute as a log and nothing to interest 'im but the goin' out and the comin' home of the hounds. When Tom had made up his mind that he warn't long for this world, he begged the squire to step down. "'Squire,' he said, 'I've been a sinner, and God forgive me; not of much good to nobody save on a horse, but I've hunted to please you and to please myself.' And they say that the old squire, when he heard Tom talk like that, spoke very gentle and pitiful, and he said, taking Tom's hand, 'Tom, my man, yer don't owe me nothin'. You've been a right good servant, gone like the devil, and loved the hounds like yer brothers.' [Sidenote: A HUNTING FUNERAL] "'Right, squire, right,' answered Tom. And then he told him what war in his mind about his berrial. "There's some as like it one way and some another," said old Timothy, "but Tom he'd set his mind on a hunting funeral. The hounds war to be in at the death, as he called it, and the good men who rode hard and straight war to be there too, and give a view holloa after parson had said the prayers. Would parson mind? Tom had asked. But the squire told 'im not to vex hisself, for the parson war of the right sort, and would understand that fox-hunting and the Church war both the glory of Englishmen. Then he asked, did Tom, that his favourite old horse, him as he had called Old Soul, was to follow behind ready saddled as for a day's hunting. And then, when all was settled to Tom's mind, he and the squire shook hands and said good-bye to each other. The squire," continued my old guest, "war a right proper man, masterful but kind, knew his own mind, but war faithful to them as had been faithful to him, and what he promised Squire George allus did. He was iron as to promises--said little, but stuck to a promise as if it had been the last word of his mother, folks said. So in November, a matter of a few days after poor Tom had died, they buried him accordin' to his instructions, and all the good fellows that had followed the hunt, and seen him show them rattling sport fine days and foul days alike, came from far and near to do him honour. And when they shouted, after lowering Tom's coffin, there war no irreverence in the job whatever. People now," continued Timothy, "don't understand sport. They think 'tis only fit stuff for a daily paper, and mayn't come nohow to church or touch Church goings on. Oh, but Lord love yer!"--and my old friend drew himself up straight in his chair--"they thought different then, and they gave Tom a view holloa, for all they were worth, did the hunt, and stood there reverent and pious over his grave bareheaded alongside, till the woods and hills fair rang with their voices. No harm," said my old friend, "war meant, and no harm war done, for God Almighty wouldn't make foxes if he didn't hold to fox-chasing." As he spoke, Master Theobalds got up. "Good-bye, marm, and thank you kindly," he said. "It does me good to talk of the old days and of the old goin's on. It kind of brings back a bit of sun to me." As he spoke the old man rapped his stick feebly along the old cement floor of the monks and crept out of the door. My big dog looked after him and growled, for the tapping of a stick is a thing that few dogs can stand. What strong men for good or ill, I argued, they were, those men who saw the end of the eighteenth and the birth of the nineteenth century. How brave and undaunted! They fought England's quarrels over Europe, and they died in Spain, and won on the plains of Waterloo. How narrow they were, how intolerant, and how brave! Surely fox-hunting taught them some of their endurance and courage, and the long days over woodland and moor gave them strong muscles and brave hearts, and prepared them for the hardships of war. The morning, with its glory of sunshine had passed, and the afternoon had grown grey and still. The joy of the morning seemed hushed, a chill grey sky was overhead, and the lowering clouds promised, a wet night. I wandered out and walked amongst the ruins. Outside the grounds I heard a dog faintly barking, and the faint murmur of children's voices reached me, but as in a dream; all the laughter and the gaiety of May morning had fled. I noticed that the thorns were bursting into blossom, and that a white lilac was covered with snow-like flowers. I passed into the Chapter House. Alas! in the nineteenth century one complete set of arches had fallen, but the beautiful interlaced arches were still there, although every saint had been knocked off his niche and destroyed by the hooligan of Henry VIII.'s or Elizabeth's reign. On the northern side, says tradition, reposed the body of St. Milburgha. [Sidenote: THE HOLY ONE AND MIRACLES] I felt in the grey evening as if I was standing on holy ground. It was here, according to William of Malmesbury, the historian monk, "that there lived formerly a very ancient house of nuns. The place (Wenlock)," he tells us, "was wholly deserted on account of the Danes having destroyed the fabric of the nunnery. After the Norman conquest, Roger de Montgomery filled the monastery with Clugniac monks, where now," wrote the pious monk, "the fair branches of virtue strain up to heaven. The virgin's tomb was unknown to the new-comers, for all the ancient monuments had been destroyed by the violence of the foemen and time. But when the fabric of the new church was commenced, as a boy ran in hot haste over the floor, the grave of the virgin was broken through, and disclosed her body. At the same time a fragrant odour of balsam breathed through the church, and her body, raised high aloft, wrought so many miracles that floods of people poured in thither. Scarcely could the broad fields contain the crowds, whilst rich and poor together, fired by a common faith, hastened on their way. None came to return without the cure or the mitigation of his malady, and even king's evil, hopeless in the hands of the leech, departed before the merits of the virgin." As I stood on the well-shorn turf, the holy scene seemed to come back to me; then, later, the crowd of devout pilgrims overflowing fields and common. I seemed almost to see the bands of eager devotees, to hear their outburst of faith and thanksgiving, and to feel them near. I imagined cripples cured, the blind returning with their sight, all relieved and all blessing the Giver of life and health in their strong belief of the eleventh century. Miss Arnold Forster, in her admirable work on "Church Dedications," declares that the little leaden geese sometimes dug up in London are the same images that were bought by pilgrims and taken back to their homes from Wenlock. In 1501, by order of Henry VII., a splendid shrine was built for the bones and relics of St. Milburgha, but after the dissolution of the monasteries, the mob broke in and robbed the tomb of its jewels, and scattered the saint's bones and ashes to the winds. I thought of all the old stories connected with the place, of the many deeds of piety of the Saxon saint and of her tomb, then of the rough usage of her shrine, and of the demolition of the churches after the Reformation. The last twenty years has brought great changes, and none are greater than the changes in many of our views respecting the Reformation. No longer a narrow Protestant spirit governs us, or makes us believe that all done at the Reformation was well done, and for the glory of God. We mourn over the ruined churches, the deserted altars, and the loss to the world of so much that was venerable and beautiful. [Sidenote: SAINTS WERE DRIVEN FORTH] Bishop Godwin lamented bitterly over the fall of the monasteries. "Godly men," he wrote, "could not approve of the destruction of so many grand churches built," as the bishop expressed it, "for the worship of God by our ancestors. It was deeply to be regretted," he declared, "the diversion of such an amount of ecclesiastical revenues to private use, and the abolition of every place where men might lead a religious life in peace, and retirement from worldly business, devoting themselves wholly to literary toil and meditation." Till the reign of Henry VIII. England was studded over with beautiful church buildings and monuments. They were centres of learning and culture. Buildwas, the great Cistercian monastery only three miles away, on the banks of the Severn, was famous in the Middle Ages for its workshops, and for the many copies of the Scriptures which were penned there, whilst in many of the monasteries, as even Lord Herbert said, the brothers behaved so well "that not only were their lives exempt from notorious faults, but their spare time was bestowed in writing books, in painting, carving, graving, and the like exercises, so that even their visitors became intercessors for their continuance." But Cromwell would not allow the monks any virtues, and declared brutally that their houses should be thrown down to the foundations, and continued to fill the king's coffers and his private purse with their gold. Camden wrote: "Up to the thirty-sixth year of Henry VIII.'s reign, there were six hundred and forty-five religious houses erected for the honour of God, the propagation of Christianity and learning, and the support of the poor. "Then," says the historian, "a storm burst upon the English Church, like a flood, breaking down its banks, which, to the astonishment of the world and the grief of the nation, bore down the greater part of the religious houses, and with them their fairest buildings. "These buildings were almost all shortly after destroyed, their monastic revenues squandered, and the wealth which the Christian piety of the English nation had from their first conversion dedicated to God, was in a moment dispersed." After doing away with the smaller monasteries, Henry VIII. found himself and the State but little richer for the confiscations. The story runs that he complained bitterly to his minister, Cromwell, of the rapacity of his courtiers, and is said to have exclaimed angrily-- "By our Lady! the cormorants, when they have got the garbage, will devour the fish." "There is more to come, your grace," answered the wily vicegerent. "Tut, tut, man," the king is supposed to have answered, "my whole realm would not stanch their maws." Great was the sorrow of the poor at the dissolution. For the monks, as a rule, had been kind masters. They had nursed the sick, and had given away many doles at Christmas and welcome charities. They had fed and had clothed the indigent, and had opened their houses often as places of rest to travellers and to those in distress. "It was," wrote Strype, "a pitiful thing to hear the lamentations that the people of the country made for the monasteries. For in them," he asserts, "was great hospitality, and by the doing away of the religious houses, it was thought more than 10,000 persons, masters and servants, had lost their living." [Sidenote: LATIMER'S PLEA] Even Latimer, strong, sturdy Protestant that he was, though he flamed with righteous wrath at the abuses that went on in many of the religious houses, prayed that some of the superior and blameless houses might be spared. It was not wise, he thought, to strike all with one sweeping blow, and he begged "that some of the monasteries might continue and be filled with inmates not bound by vows, and revised by stringent statutes, where men in every shire might meditate and give themselves up to holy prayer, and acquire the art of preaching." "That soul must be low indeed," wrote Cobbett, in his "History of the Protestant Reformation," "which is insensible to all feelings of pride in the noble edifices of its country." "Love of country, that variety of feelings which all together constitute what we properly call patriotism, consists in part, of the admiration and of veneration for ancient and magnificent proofs of skill, and of opulence. "The monks built, as well as wrote, for posterity. The never-dying nature of their institutions set aside in all their undertakings every calculation as to time and age. Whether they built, or whether they planted, they set the generous example of providing for the pleasure, the honour, the wealth and greatness, of generations upon generations, yet unborn. They executed everything in the best possible manner. Their gardens, their fish-ponds, farms; in all, in the whole of their economy they set an example tending to make the country beautiful--to make it an object of pride with the people, and to make the nation truly, and permanently great." Full of these different thoughts, I walked beneath arch and column, and so away from the old world and its belongings, until I stood before my aviary of canaries. I entered the cage. As I watched my birds I heard a pitter-patter overhead, and, looking up, I saw, leaning against a rail, my little friend Thady Malone. "Well, Thady," I said, "what has brought you here? I missed you this morning during the May Dance." "'Deed," said Thady, slowly, "it was sorry I was not to be wid you, for I hear the little leddy danced like a cat in the moonlight, and shone like a glow-worm at the point of day." "Oh, but Bess didn't dance," I answered laughing. "But, 'deed, if she had," replied Thady, enthusiastically, "there's not a fairy in auld Oireland that would have kept pace with her, or looked half the darlint." "Have it your own way, Thady," I said, for I knew that Thady had long since kissed the Blarney Stone. "And now tell me why you didn't come. There were cakes, and singing." "My mother," answered Thady, solemnly. "It was my mother that was the prevention of my best intentions. My mother," he continued, "is as full of pride as an egg is full of meat. And 'Thady,' she said, in a voice as deep as death, yer leddyship knows her way of speakin', ''yer must never,' she said, 'give the name of your father a downfall. When yer go to her leddyship's sports it must be clad as the best of 'em,' and where were my boots to begin with?" And Thady sighed, and looked down rather piteously at his bare feet. But a minute later, with the grace of an Irish lad, his face became wreathed in smiles, and he turned to me saying, "Well, though I stayed at home I gave yer all the good wishes in the world, and as I couldn't be here in the morning, 'tis here I am in the evening." Then I stepped out of the aviary, and, as I mounted the stairs, I noted that Thady's face had an air of mystery. As I approached him, he held out something in his hand, and said, in a tone of charming apology, "Here is something I have for yer, and for yourself alone. It's never dirt with yer leddyship, whatever it is that a poor lad brings yer," and as I got near, Thady uncovered one hand, and I saw through the fingers of the other a little black bird. [Sidenote: "A JACK SQUEALER, BEGORRA"] "A jack squealer, begorra," he exclaimed triumphantly, as I reached the same level that he was on. Then Thady went on to say that he had picked him up last night. "He's tired with coming," he explained, "poor bit of a bird, but if yer can keep him safe for a day or two, he'll live to fly with the best over crypt and arch." So Thady and I bore away our prize, and mounted to the old chamber, which is known as the leper's room, and there we deposited our little feathered friend. "He'll do here," said Thady, "no cat can get him here. Give him a dish of water, and he'll catch flies for himself." The little bird was of a dusty black, with faint green reflections, and with a light drab tint beneath his beak, but with no white whatever under the tail. His short face expressed no fear at human contact. His legs I noted were very short. I put him down on the powdery dust of the chamber. He did not attempt to fly away, but when I placed him against my dress, he ran up my shoulder, to quote Thady's words, "as active as a rabbit in a field of clover." "He's a late un," said Thady, contemplating his little prize. "'Last to come, first to go,' I've heard 'em say about swallows, but I don't know if 'tis true or not; but he's pretty in a way, and doesn't know what fear is." Then Thady went on to say nobody hurts a squealer, not even Wenlock boys, even _they_ let him be. He's the Almighty's prime favourite, after a wren or a cock robin, Thady gave as an explanation. Then he told me how he found him at the bottom of the Bull Ring last night. "Tired he was," continued Thady, "like a tired horse that had taken three parties to a wedding. So I took him up safe from the cats; and old Timothy, him as they call Maister Theobalds, he said, leaning on his stick and his smock floating behind him like a petticoat, 'Let the lady of the Abbey have 'im. Varmint and such toys be all in her line. She or the lady Bess wull be sure to like 'im.' So I brought 'im here." "He is most fascinating," I answered, watching my new pet; "but how can I catch him flies?" "Let him be," answered Thady; "feeding birds is mostly killing 'em. With water he'll freshen up, and go and get his own meat." I stood a few minutes watching the little bird. He ran about on the floor, and apparently found what was necessary for his subsistence; but his wings were so weak that he could not rise. Thady disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared with an armful of branches. "These will be a pleasure to him and harbour insects, and such birds like shade. Now he'll do." We arranged the boughs, and Thady fetched a saucer of water, which he put down. The bird, after a moment's hesitation, plunged in, expanded his wings with a cry of pleasure, and then lay contentedly on the ground. "He'll be well now," said Thady, "well as Uncle Pat's pig when it got into an orchard of cider apples." So we shut the old door of the leper's chamber carefully behind us, and descended the steps--overgrown with budding valerian. [Sidenote: FRESH NESTS TO SEE] "They be wonderfully dressy, be swallows," piped Thady, "in the building of their nests. There's nought that comes amiss to them. Shreds of gauze, scraps of muslin, bits of mud, in fact," he added, "any iligant thing that they can meet with, they dart off with in a minute. 'Tis wonderful the fancy and the invention of the craythures. In August they'll go, this sort; but where they go there's few as knows." I was about to return to the Abbey, when Thady stopped me. "I've somethin' else to show you, somethin' as you'll be pleased wid," he said. "What is it?" "A real pretty bird," was Thady's answer. "None of yer common kinds. The cock is the bonniest little fellow I have ever seen; fire snaps, I call 'em,--that's the name that Ben O'Mally called one that we saw together near Birmingham. He's about the size of a robin, but 'tis a more spirited tail that he has, a black waistcoat, and a lavender head. None of your mud-pie midgeon tits, but a real gay hopper. About the bonniest little fellow that I have ever seen. He's got a flash of brightness about him, like the foreign flower that Mister Burbidge declared he would whip the life out of me if I touched. Jump the flame, the blazer, and kitty brantail, I've heard him called in different places; but call 'em what they will, they all think a lot of him." Then I asked Thady about the plumage of the little hen. "Oh, the missus," answered Thady. "Well she's purty but not so fine as her mate. She's a bitter duller, and the fire has gone out of her tail." "Where is the nest?" I asked. Thady did not answer, but walked across the ruined church to a broken column, and there, sure enough, in a little hole screened from the winds by a spray of budding eglantine, I found the nest of the redstart. The eggs, of which there are four, reminded me of those of the hedge-sparrow; but the blue was fainter, and on one or two I noticed a few dim brownish specks. Then we retired quickly, for hovering close by was the brilliant little cock bird himself. How beautiful he was! Like a vision of the tropics. The redstart is never found in great numbers in Shropshire, but every year there is a pair that comes and builds somewhere in our ruined church. Three years ago they built in a wall, last year in a crevice in the crypt, and this year in a ruined column. The redstart visits our shores in April, and always commands attention by his brilliant plumage. He is a bold bird and not easily frightened. He dips his tail up and down, with a movement which recalls that of a water-wagtail, only it is not so fussy, or continuous; and when he flies, he leaves behind him the vision of a red-hot coal on the wing, so glorious are the feathers on the top of the tail. I begged Thady to show no one the nest. Nests are best kept dead secrets, and this one, I said, will be a joy and an interest to me for the next two months. "I've somethin' more," and Thady hesitated--"and a real beauty," he added. "I know yer was occupied with play-acting and entertainments and what not," and Thady waved his hand majestically, as if on May morning of 1904 ours had been the revels of Kenilworth, and added "it isn't beasts, and birds, that the gentry care for at such times, so I waited my time," and Thady beckoned to me to follow. I crossed the garden, and let myself out by the lily gates while Thady stepped over the wall, and found myself in a few minutes' time across the meadows and standing with Thady by the furthest point of the old Abbey fish-ponds. [Sidenote: A RING-OUZEL'S NEST] "'Tisn't often as this sort will come down from the hills and the wild ground," Thady said. "They are wild folk and belong to the north moorland. I've never heard of a rock-jack here. Some folks call 'em burn-dippers." I looked, and saw amongst the branches of an old willow a nest which was not unlike that of a blackbird, but the eggs were not quite the same, being splashed with spots of a reddish brown on a ground of a brighter green. "What is it?" I asked, for Thady's country names did not convey much to me. And then I saw, not far off on the grass, a bird not unlike the familiar blackbird, or black ouzel of the garden, as some country folks still call him, save that he had a white throat. It was the first that I ever saw in England, although I believe the ring-ouzel is not uncommon on the Church Stretton hills; but on cultivated land, save in a few parts of Scotland, he is always a rare visitor. I watched him hop about, with the same heavy flop of his cousin, the blackbird, but I noted that his plumage was not so brilliant as our garden favourite. He had greener shades in the black, and his plumage was almost of a rusty brown in places. Underneath his throat he had a brilliant white tie. He was certainly a handsome fellow. His movements recalled those of a blackbird, but he had not the "yellow dagger" that Tennyson praised, and at our approach he did not make his exit with the angry rattle which is so characteristic of our garden friend. "Why, Thady," I said, "I am pleased. The ring-ouzel is a very rare English bird. At least, so they say in books." "Begorra, I have never seen one in these parts but once," answered Thady, "and that was in Sherlot Forest by the lake." Then we got back over the rails, and I followed Thady to one of the small plantations where the young trees were about twenty years old. "What else have you got?" for Thady was beginning to run, so great evidently was his impatience to show me something that he knew of. "A nest of the finest singer in Shropshire," replied Thady, "as good, some say, as the nightingale. I've heard him called the mock nightingale, and by others the coal tuft, Jack smut, and black the chimney. Anyway, whatever they like to call him, he's a fine songster for all his poor dull feathers. He can pipe loud and full right across a wood, and then warble soft as a nope's bride. He won't stay here in August, and flies away with the first of the swallows." Then I recalled the olive woods in Southern France, and remembered how sweetly I had heard the blackcaps sing in March mornings from the Hotel Bellevue windows. I looked at the little nest built in the branches of a budding bramble; it was not unlike that of a robin, save that it had no moss interwoven in its structure, and that it was entirely lined with horse hair and the hair off the backs of the red and white cows of the country. Inside I saw three eggs of a palish, reddish brown, sprinkled over with spots of purple. I could not help noticing how different the three eggs were. "I've never before found eggs like this so early," said Thady. "Generally the Jack smuts take a deal of time to settle, but this pair have a-nested and laid as soon as they got to the parish." I bent over the nest. [Sidenote: THE BOWER OF THE MOCK NIGHTINGALE] "Don't touch 'em," cried Thady, excitedly, "since it's yer leddyship's pleasure to leave them; for the mock warbler, as dad calls him, he says are as shy as a hawk, and a touch of the nest will make 'em quit in a twinkling. Some morning, yer leddyship," Thady continued, "yer must come down and hear him. If yer was to get outside the fence, yer'd catch him some day singing. For he's got a strange voice, soft and pretty at one moment as if he was charming, and the next as if telling the tales of a thousand victories." Thady and I walked home in the twilight. I love seeing the nests of God's little wild birds. How wonderfully they are built. What marvellous architects birds are, how clever and dexterous, with claw and beak. In the still light of the dying day, the old spire of the parish church loomed like a gigantic lance across the rich meadows, and through the stillness I heard the sound of the chimes. They filled this old English spot with a sense of rest. No hurry, they seemed to call, no hurry. Leisure, the best gift of the gods, is yours and ours. Time to wander, time to see, time to sleep. I stood and gazed on the quiet scene. All the pleasant things of spring and summer were before us. White mists were gathering from the beck and running in long lines of diaphanous obscurity across the fields. There was no sound but the distant chimes. All was sinking gently to rest. I entered the eastern gate and called to Mrs. Langdale, the old housekeeper, and begged her to give me a hunch of cake to bestow on Thady. The good dame handed it through the mullioned window sourly enough, for Thady was no favourite with such a barndoor-natured woman as my old housekeeper. "'Tis little I'd get if yer leddyship wasn't here," laughed Thady. "'Get out and don't poison the place with yer breath, yer limb of Satan,'--that's what I'd hear if yer wasn't by, to stand by me," Thady whispered, as Mrs. Langdale shut the window with an angry snap. I passed the hunch of cake to Thady, and quickly, silently he put it into his voluminous pocket, in which it disappeared as in a well. Then Thady lifted his cap, and a second later I heard him whistling softly in the gloaming. As I went into the chapel hall I was greeted by Constance. I congratulated her warmly on her successful morning. Nothing could have been better, I said. It was a real scene of gaiety, and gave, I am sure, all the young and old, a great deal of enjoyment. "There not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in May," I quoted laughingly. "The old times will come back to Wenlock, thanks to you, Constance," I said. "Over each house will be hung bough and garlands, till each household is given up to laughter and frolic." "There is much wisdom in wholesome laughter," my friend replied. "Perhaps the best thing that can be done for the people is to teach them how to play. They have almost forgotten how, in their desire to make money." Then my friend and I parted. [Sidenote: IN THE RUINED CHURCH] After dinner I wandered into the garden. It was a lovely night. The moon was hardly seen, only in faint peeps at intervals, but there was a mist of stars. I faintly saw the vane of the flying crane pointing due south, and in the distance I heard the hoot of an owl far away in the Abbot's Walk. In the pathway I saw dim shadowy creatures, which turned out to be toads enjoying the cool moisture of the night. Far away, in a cornfield, I caught the harsh cry of the corncrake, calling, calling--as he would call, I knew, all through the May nights. A little later, and over Windmoor Hill on the sheep-nipped turf would glisten nature's jewel, the glow-worm, but early in May such gems are rarely to be met with in our cold country. How lovely it was to wander round the garden and ruined church--to inhale the scent of the budding lilac, and the poet's narcissus in the grass, for where pious knees once knelt was then a milky way of floral stars. They glittered in the grass like faint jewels, and their rich perfume gave the evening air an intoxicating sweetness. My great hound walked at my heels. At night she is always watchful, and is haunted by a persistent sense of danger. But even she, that still night, could find nothing to be alarmed about, or to hurl defiance at. All the world seemed bathed in a mystic sapphire bath of splendour, and round me I knew that mystic process of what we call life was silently but rapidly taking form. I could almost feel the budding of the trees, for the wonderful revelation of summer was at hand. To-night, on an ancient larch, one of the first I have heard that was planted in Shropshire, a storm-cock, as the country people call the missel-thrush, piped into the growing night. What a joyous song his was. He had sung on and off, since January, and his voice was almost the loudest and clearest of all the feathered songsters. No cold could daunt him, but soon he would be silent, for the storm-cock sings little after May. The world, where not spoilt by smoke and man, was very fair and full of wonderful things. All was flowering and growing apace. As I stood in the ruined church, love and joy seemed to be borne upon the soft winds as they fanned my face and played amongst the tender leaves. I sat down by the ancient lavabo and looked at the ruined church. How much the walls might tell me if they could but speak. What stories of stately processions, for kings and queens were often the guests of the Prior of Wenlock. Henry I., Henry III., and his queen Eleanor came, if tradition says true, Charles Stuart, when fate fought against him, and Impetuous Rupert, at least to Wenlock. Then the story runs that Arthur and his Spanish bride passed through Wenlock on their way to Ludlow. And as I sat there and mused, I thought of all the great ones who had passed through and spent days, happy or otherwise, at Wenlock--the world's delight and wonder, they were all gone, and the Abbey too, which was once the pride of Catholicism in Shropshire, the meeting-place of devout pilgrims, the resort of royalty, that too had gone. Its walls have served to build cottages. Its splendour is a thing of the past, and the owl and the wild birds fly where once abbot and friar paced in solemn devotion. [Illustration: _Photo by Mr. W. Golling._ THE LAVABO.] In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the church was used as a quarry, the old folks have often said. "No need to dig out stone," one old wheezy man told me; "when cottages was run up, us used to know where to go, for pigsties, or even a patch on the road. Have in a cart, and down went a bit of the Abbey. It was mighty handy, a deal better than blasting the rock as they do now to rear a wall." "King Collins," as the old people used to call Sir Watkin's agent, who lived in the red-brick house which is now the Vicarage, carted away whatever he had a mind to. "What he set his heart on that he took," another old man said, "and put it afore his own door." [Sidenote: A HANDFUL OF EARTH] I thought of all the changes that Wenlock had seen, beginning with the foundation of the Saxon nunnery. Then later of Roger de Montgomery's Clugniac monks--the fame of the great Abbey, the Dissolution, poor John Cressage, its last Prior, the Civil Wars, and the breaking up of the Abbey fabric through the nineteenth century. Life often seems to go so slowly, and yet how many changes Wenlock--and for that matter, every yard of English soil--has seen, since the dawn of English history, up to this twentieth century. Here we were in the year 1904, I mused, and this little plot of ground on which I sat had seen a Saxon saint go by. It had been traversed by Roger de Montgomery, Cromwell's soldiers had fired across it with cannon, and all the while, sun and rain had had their turns, and soft spring showers had rejoiced daisy and lady's-slipper. Deep winter snows had enshrined tomb and arch, and all the natural changes of season and climate had occurred, and will recur to the end of time. Ah, there are many thoughts to ponder over merely in a handful of British earth! As I sat on, lost in thought, my great hound's head resting at my feet, the silence was broken by the sound of the old church clock. It struck eleven. I touched the grass at my feet: it was wet with dew. From behind me as I rose came strongly in a soft breeze all the perfumes of the sweet things then in flower, and as I passed out of the cloisters my last vision was the mead of narcissi nodding softly in the night wind. Mouse and I turned back out of the lily gate, and so into the quadrangle. Light flashed from the hanging lamps in the ambulatory, and I heard in the distance the refrain of an old Brittany song, that Auguste was singing in his kitchen. Half an hour later not a sound, and the lights were put out, and all was still. Only the scents of the honeysuckle and the budding lilac reached me from my open casement, and the cry of the corncrake, which seemed mysteriously to record the passing of the hours and the passing of all things--Kings, Queens, Abbots, Kingdoms and Commonwealths. So musing I fell asleep. Several weeks later I rose "betimes," as they say here, and whilst the dew was lying like a mantle of diamonds on the glistening turf. I stepped off to the old red-walled garden and visited the beds of tulips. My late tulips were all out in a blaze of beauty--rose, red, white, yellow, and gold, whilst some were splashed with sombre purple. On the walls, the creepers were all clad in green, and the honeysuckles cast their perfume in all the corners of the garden. But I did not stop to linger; a wild spirit was on me, and I made my way across the golden meadows, past the fern-clad hill, and beyond what folks call here the paddock. I walked on, faithful Mouse following closely, until I reached the bottom of the hill on which the hamlet of Wyke is built, and then I turned to the north, and retraced my steps by Farley Dingle. What an enchantingly beautiful thing the dew on the opening flowers of the dog-rose is, and how delicate are the red shades of the opening fronds of the bracken. Then I saw other treasures, none of which were more lovely than some pink cheeked oak-apples, encircled in the golden tassels of the oak blossom. Why does one not get up every morning? I said to myself. Why miss daily the enchantments of morning? The dew, the scents, and the sunshine were all delicious. I returned through the little town. Life was just beginning. Shops were opening. A few people drove past in noisy carts. Mothers were preparing their children to go to school. Men were going to work after their breakfasts, to the near fields, or in the shops; whilst whelp, and hound, and pup, were all gaily frolicking in the streets. [Sidenote: THE ROYAL OAK] I saw little friends go by. They laughed and bowed to me. Nearly all the little lads had got, I noticed, a sprig of oak leaves in their cap, for it was the 29th of May, Royal Oak Apple Day, as the folks call it; and some of them as they passed called out-- "Royal Oak I Whig provoke," and pointed to the badge in their caps. Shropshire is the land of loyalty, and people still cherish there the memory of the hiding of the King at Boscobel. The 29th of May is the anniversary of Charles II.'s Restoration, and the custom since then of wearing oak leaves on that day still lingers on in many counties. I read once a terrible story of two soldiers in George I.'s time who were nearly flogged to death in 1716 for putting oak sprigs in their hats. The Royal Oak, wrote Stukeley, "stood a bow shot from the house (of Boscobel). Into this tree, Colonel Carlos and the King climbed by the aid of a hen-roost ladder. Members of the family fed them by fastening the victuals to a nut hook. The tree is now enclosed with a brick wall in the inside of which are placed laurels. Close to the oak is a thriving plant reared from one of its acorns." The story runs that the King, in gratitude, collected some acorns at a later date from the oak which had afforded him a shelter, had them planted in St. James's Park, and watered them with his own hands. Are they still growing? I have often asked myself; or have they perished like the Stuart line and cause? Be this as it may, the custom of wearing the oak is still dear to Shropshire lads, and at Wenlock any lad "who will not mount the green" is considered fair game for other little lads to pummel and cuff. As I walked down Sheinton Street I noticed that three little boys came out of a house together. Suddenly a little lad passed them without the orthodox "tuft of green." With a wild whoop the little lads gave chase. "Bash and bummel him," they called. "Have at 'un." I hardly think they knew what they were making this onslaught on a comrade for, but they would have vaguely told you, if they could, that it was not what Etonians would call "good form" to appear at Wenlock on the 29th of May without a "badge of green." I stood and watched the chase. My little Roundhead was not caught. He dodged his pursuers adroitly, and in the midst of the hunt the school-bell sounded, so for a moment an armistice was declared. Before I went in I visited my beds of anemone and ranunculi. What is there of such enchanting brilliancy as the exquisite scarlet anemone, the well-known wind flower of the Pyrenees, as I have heard it called, with its dazzling scarlet blossoms? But my few clumps were over. This lovely variety I have never known "a free grower," as gardeners call it, in the North, but in Sussex and Hampshire it is said to do well. The roots that I had out then were the exquisite double sorts, and some of the large flowering single varieties. Amongst my most beautiful named sorts I saw by the labels were--Rose de Nice, a delicate satiny rose, Snowball, and Rose Mignon, which last is of a splendid deep shade of pink. There were also Chapeau de Cardinal, Fire King, and la Dame Blanche. How lovely they all were, and how vividly they brought back to me the florists' shops at Nice, Cannes, and Mentone. How well I remembered the big bunches in all colours in their picturesque green jars of native pottery. But more beautiful still was the recollection of the sheets of anemones as I saw them in Sir Thomas Hanbury's beautiful garden of La Mortola. They were principally single, and raised from seed by his gardener, I was told. What a glory of colour they made with the cypress trees, ilexes and orange groves as a background, mingling with daffodils and cyclamen, whilst the air was laden with the scent of orange and lemon-blossom. I recalled the glory of these lovely visions. Even here in England a few patches seemed to add greatly to the beauty and joy of a garden. Then I stopped and picked a few sprays to copy in my curtain. Whilst thus engaged, I was conscious that some one was approaching me. I looked up, and saw my little girl's governess, Miss Weldon. By her troubled face I knew that she had unpleasant news to communicate; in fact, I was sure the unpleasant rock of Worry was ahead. [Sidenote: BESS NAUGHTY] I listened, and Bess's delinquencies were poured forth into my unwilling ears. My little maid, it appeared, had bitten the nursery maid, slapped her nurse, and had ended in a fit of rage by throwing her lesson-books in her governess' face. She had flatly refused to do any lessons to-day. In fact, I was told, she had declined "to study" ever since the excitement of the recitals for the May dance; and Miss Weldon declared that she did not approve of public performances, and pursed up her lips severely. I did not wait to hear any more for, to quote Burbidge, "the less of a disagreeable you mind, the better for your supper," but I went straight into the house. I went up the old newel stairs and found Bess on the floor of the nursery. The whole room resounded with her angry cries. "Horrid slug, stupid snail," and other words of opprobrium I heard in quick reiteration. She kicked, screamed, and vowed she hated everybody and everything, with a furious, scarlet face. Even old Nana did not escape her abuse. There was nothing to be done but to put Bess to bed, and tell her that there she must remain till I could forgive her, and let her get up again. "I hate you, mother!" she cried in a shower of tears. "When I'm rich I'll buy a new mother." And as I closed the door an angry little voice called out, "I'd sell you all for sixpence; you're all horrid, horrid!" I tried to seek peace with my crewels and my needle, and bethought myself of the bunch of anemones which in haste I had thrown upon a table in the chapel hall. But peace that day might not be mine. War, black war, seemed to have set in in all parts of my demesne. Célestine bounced in like a whirlwind of discord and fury. [Sidenote: VOICES OF DISCORD] "Cette odieuse femme! Cet animal empesté!" by which civil terms she alluded to the old housekeeper, who had done something unpardonable; "mais j'aurai ma place quand même." Then followed a string of incoherent abuse. A second afterwards, Mrs. Langdale appeared, took up the tale, and vindicated her honour and position. The two women glared at each other like wild cats, and set to work to abuse each other roundly, each in her own mother tongue. Célestine spoke in high southern French, breathless, scarlet, her eyes burning like live coals, whilst Mrs. Langdale screamed shrilly in angry Shropshire tones. Our old housekeeper does not generally speak in her native dialect, but in moments of excitement she takes to it as to her native element. Her voice ran up like the women's of the west, and she trembled with fury as she called forth judgments on foreigners, "furies, and such like good-for-nothing losellers and vagrants." So great was their indignation and so near did they approach each other in passion, that I feared they must come to blows; but at last they vanished, vowing vengeance, and filling the monks' passage with cries of discord. The _causa belli_ was difficult to discover, but there seemed to have been a disagreement over a towel, a bit of soap, and some key of a cupboard. Anyway, what was wanting in wit, was fully made up by wrath. How eloquent, at least how voluble, two furious women of the lower classes can be, like Shakespeare's women, in their flights of rage. With us the power of vituperation is a power of the past. We control ourselves and our anger smoulders in our hearts, but rarely flies forth in a whirlwind of words. At last I was left with Mouse, and alone we sat on, hoping only for peace. How good life would be without its worries and its quarrels. Mouse and I looked at each other. "My dog," I said, "you have one great merit: you cannot speak." CHAPTER VI _JUNE_ "Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumbe, For the flowrie earth The golden pomp is come." HERRICK. Yes, the golden pomp had come. The earth was radiant. Down below the Abbey extended sheets of golden buttercups, the world was full of song, and a clear turquoise sky, cloudless and glorious, rose above us, and all through the joyous days we were bathed in glad sunshine. Peace had come, inside and outside the house. The storms that ended May had vanished, and my domestic coach seemed rolling gaily along. Bess had grown good again, the roughest children sometimes do. The lessons were learnt without too much grumbling, and Miss Weldon no longer carried her head low with shame. Mrs. Langdale and Célestine had settled down into hostile neutrality, and for that I was thankful. "Ma'zelle's tongue is like a firebrand, but I give her no chance, I never speak to her," my old friend told me. And as angry silence is better than open war, I received its advent with thanksgiving; but all messages were impossible, and I suspected Fremantle had hard work to steer his boat between the sullen seas of "the room." [Sidenote: A SUMMER GARDEN] But a truce to domestic worries, for early in June I gardened; that is to say, I stood about on the close-shorn turf and Burbidge gave directions for the summer plants to be put in the beds. This always is a solemn summer function, and Burbidge had all the importance of a Prime Minister moving amongst his Cabinet, whilst I stood by and admired. On the east side of the Abbey Farmery, as it was once called, we had already put in round beds of heliotrope (the old cherry-pie of childhood). Burbidge had planted a bed of scarlet verbenas, and was, when I went out, putting in one of the delicate pure white variety, that smells so sweet after a passing shower in the twilight. Besides these, there were to be spudded in beds of crimson and scarlet geraniums, near the high southern wall running from the oratory to the gazebo. We had planted, a few years before, sweet tea-roses of all colours--pink, orange, and copper, a _Choisya ternata_, the orange-blossom of Mexico, patches of close-clinging Virginian creeper, to enjoy their autumn glory, and over the pillars different varieties of large-flowering clematises. These, as they make their full growth, will be tied to the stone balls that crown the wall. The clematises are of the most beautiful modern sorts, mauve, lavender, and purple, and in August and September, I trust, will repay us amply for our care during the dark winter months, and in the sharp winds of March. Burbidge was solemnly having his plants brought out, and stood watching that no mishap took place, for, he assured me, "boys were born careless." Round the sundial were to be planted four scarlet plots of geraniums, and all were to be edged with a ribbon of blue lobelia. "How commonplace!" some of my readers will exclaim; but all the same, very gay and cheery during the late summer and early autumn, and a brilliant note of colour when the glory of the herbaceous borders is over. We must always remember that there are many forms of beauty, and that even the newest one day will be old-fashioned, and that a fashion immediately past may have something to commend it, in spite of the gardening papers of the day, and _learned critics_. When the beds were planted and the tiny little string of lobelia added, then the wire netting that encircled each bed was carefully put back, or otherwise, to quote Burbidge, "Adam and his crew would soon be the death of the greenhouse stuff, sure enough." After that, we planted a bed of heliotrope, of a beautiful Jamaica variety, that was brought back from there by a friend; and then a bed or two of fuchsias, including a few two- or three-year-old standards in the centre, for nothing gives a bed greater beauty than that it should be of different heights. The old flat bed was poor and ugly, and did not give half the effect of colour that one does of different heights. Then I saw put out beds of latana, red, yellow, and brown, and salmon and pink geraniums, and the old stone troughs and tubs were filled with rich velvety petunias. After all the small beds were planted, we came to the long border immediately in front of the new southern wall. There Burbidge put in squares of that dear old plant known to children as the lemon verbena plant, and great patches of many different sorts of sweet-scented geraniums. Amongst these delights were the old peppermint, the rose geranium, the lemon-scented, the citron-scented, the apple-scented, and the pennyroyal, and some of the best of the named sorts, such as Little Gem, Pretty Polly, Lady Plymouth, Shottesham Park, and Lady Scarborough. Altogether, Burbidge told me with pride, there were not less than twenty sorts. All these perfumed pelargoniums have a delicious fragrance of their own, distinct, and exquisitely sweet. All will bed out well in an English garden, but care should be taken to plant out in the same bed sorts that grow about the same height, as some varieties are much more vigorous than others in the open, and, to quote Burbidge's words, "fair trample down the weaker sorts, like horses wud childer, if yer put 'em alongside." In this long border there were also placed round bushes of Paris Marguerites, and here and there Burbidge slipped in a castor-oil plant with its overshadowing handsome foliage and horse-chestnut-like fruit, and at intervals a spike of cannas, and a plant or two of tasselled maize with variegated leaf, "to bring them tropics home," I was told. Then in the foreground, "his boys" spudded in African marigolds, soft mauve violas, asters, and stocks, besides patches of geraniums, to bring in "a smart snap of colour," as my old gardener put it. [Sidenote: "SOME NOSEGAY BLOWS"] After luncheon I went out on the other side of the old house, to what is known as the Quadrangle, to witness further garden operations. I pleaded in favour of putting into some of the tubs what Burbidge calls "some nosegay blows." Burbidge acceded to my request; "But us must mind the colours too," he declared. He put in, however, to please me, a few little brown evening stocks, that smell sweetest at nights, for I told him that it was delightful to come and sit out after dinner, and enjoy the scents of night. He put in a few verbenas also, for the chance of evening showers, some nicotianas, and a few crimson humeas. Round the old redstone building, he planted three rows of Jacoby geraniums, "For them will mean brightness," he said. As I stood and watched the last row of geraniums being put in the soil, I was joined by Bess and Mouse. "Oh, mum!" Bess told me, "Mouse has been growling and growling at something behind the ivy. If it had been at night, I should say she had met a devil or ogre. Every minute she was with Nana and me, she got crosser and crosser; and see, her nose is quite red and bleeding, just like Hals' when he tumbled downstairs. Could it be a real robber?" and Bess's eyes opened wide. "No," I answered, "I don't think it could be a robber; but let's go and see." So we started off across the gravel. Mouse ran on ahead, as if anxious to show us something. Suddenly she stopped with a whimper. I followed on, jumped down the crypt, and, peering behind the ivy leaves, soon discovered the cause of my dog's excitement and displeasure. I found half covered up with dead leaves and rolled tightly into a ball of prickles, a poor little hedgehog. "For shame, Mouse!" I cried, and called her off. For Mouse, at the sight of the poor little beast, growled angrily, and wished once more to go for her antagonist. "Better to kill un'," said Burbidge, who had arrived on the scene. "Hedgehogs baint good for naught. They be milk-suckers, and death on the squire's game." For like most country-folks, Burbidge's hand was against hedgehogs. Burbidge had in his hand a rake, and was about to strike the poor little prickly creature, but I interposed. [Sidenote: MY SANCTUARY] "They do no harm. Besides, this is my sanctuary," I said. "In the Abbey Church no bird or beast may be harmed." Burbidge walked away growling, "Varmint should be killed anywhere." Then Bess and I went and inspected the little ball of spikes. "See, Bess," I said, "how it defends itself. All the winter this hedgehog has slept amongst a bed of dead ivy leaves, and so has passed long months. But now that summer has returned it will walk about, and at nights he will crop the grass, and eat insects." Mouse looked abashed at my lavishing notice on a hedgehog, and jumped up on a bank of thyme and watched intently what I was doing. Great Danes are remarkably sensitive dogs, and the mildest rebuke is often sufficient to make them miserable for long spells. A friend of mine, who had a very large one, said, "I never dared do more than whip its kennel. As a puppy, that was punishment enough." So I spoke gently to Mouse, and said, "You must never hurt hedgehogs again." At this, Mouse gravely descended from her heights, sat down by my side, and inspected the hedgehog, and I felt certain she would never hurt one again. Then I said to Bess that perhaps there were some little hedgehogs not far off, funny little creatures, born with little, almost soft, prickles; and I told the child how useful they were in a garden. How they feed on slugs and insects, and how, when introduced in a kitchen, they would even eat black beetles. "Once," I told my little maid, "I had read that a poor scullion, in the Middle Ages, had one that he taught to turn the spit. So you see, Bess," I said, "hedgehogs can be very useful creatures; not at all the wicked murderous race that Burbidge would wish you to believe." Bess looked at me askance. "I cannot like them as much as you, mama," she answered in a pained voice; "for Nana said too that they sucked the cows. And see how this one has pricked poor Mouse's nose." "Well, let us leave the hedgehog," at last I said, "and wash foolish Mouse's wounds." So we wandered off to the fountain, and dipped our handkerchiefs into the clear water, and washed my great hound's fond and foolish nose. At first, Mouse objected; but as Bess told her, "One gets used to washing, same as lessons," so after a minute or two, she sat by us until we had washed away all traces of the fray. As we were thus engaged, Auguste, the French cook, went by. I noticed, as he passed us, that he carried in his hand a basket. "Voyez, madame," he cried. "Quelle belle trouvaille. Elles sont superbes." And he showed me a mass of creepy, crawly, slimy brown snails. Auguste was as proud as if he had found a basketful of new-laid eggs, and proposed with his aides to have a magnificent _souper_. "Quelle luxe!" I heard him say to himself, as he made his way to his kitchen, "et dire dans toute cette valetaille il n'y a que nous, qui en voudrons." Auguste will steep them in cold water, and then cook them. I must honestly confess I have never had the courage to eat one, but I believe now that there is a growing demand for escargots in London, and I have been told that in one shop alone, more than a hundred thousand are sold each season. "Come on, mamsie," at last cried Bess. "Even Nana couldn't make Mouse cleaner." So my little maid and I went off hand-in-hand across the well-tended lawns of the Cloister garth. [Sidenote: "ONLY YOU AND ME AND MOUSE"] Bess was full of confidences. "Mamsie," said my little maid, "I never want to grow any older, 'cause why--I should have to wear long, long dresses, like grown-ups, and then, how could I climb the trees. But I should like all days to go on just the same as to-day--no lessons, no rain, no governesses, nobody but you and me and Mouse." I caught something of the child's enthusiasm. The glory of the summer was like an intoxicating draught. "Wouldn't it be lovely, dear," I said, "to have no commonplaces, no tiresome duties--only summer and the song of birds; and never to catch cold, or feel ill, or tired, or worried?" Bess laughed, and we kissed each other. We walked on along the path that encircled the ruins. Young, fat, flopperty thrushes, with large brown eyes and short tails, hopped about the grass. On the bough of a lime tree, we came across a line of little tom-tits, nine in a row. There they sat, chirping softly, or charming, as the people call it here. The poor parent birds, in an agony of terror, flew backwards and forwards, imploring their offspring to return to the nest, but the young ones took no notice. They would not believe in the existence of such monsters as boys or cats. They, too, like us, were charmed with the sunshine and the gaiety of the outside world, and utterly declined to go back to what folks call here, "their hat of feathers." A little further on, however, our enthusiasms received a chill. In the branches of a dead laurel, that I had for some time been watching, was a thrush's nest, and it was deserted. The mother-bird had sat day and night, and I had watched the tips of her brown tail, or met, at intervals, the gaze of her round anxious eye. And now the nest was forsaken. How sad! She had become almost a friend. For days, after breakfast, I had brought out a saucer full of bread and milk, and placed it at a respectful distance from the nest. And yet in spite of all my care, behold! an enemy had come in the night, some horrid boy or evil cat, and the thrush had forsaken the nest, and we lamented over the eggs--cold as stones. I showed Bess the nest. "How wicked!" cried Bess, "to frighten off a poor bird like that. Well, I am sure," she added, "the wicked creature that has done that ought to go to prison. Perhaps Barbara, the housemaid," she continued, after a moment's reflection, "might tell her policeman. Policemen should be of use, sometimes." With a sense of regret, I retraced my steps, till I reached the tourist's wicket, that leads into the public road. Seated close by, on a mossy bank, I found old Timothy Theobalds. I told him about the forsaken thrush's nest. "Lord, love yer, marm!" he answered contemptuously, "they be as common as blackberries, be thrushes; there's any amount of they--there be one not a hundred yards off, just on the ground. The feathered gentry will fly, give 'em a week or so. I don't think nothin' of they. But I do remember a yellow water wagtail's nest, when I was a boy. It war down by the pond. I was stayin' with grandam, and the missus that lived here at the farm had a fine lot of white ducks then. Well, she seed me one day speerin' round, and her thought I war arter her ducks. 'What be yer lookin' round here for?' her cried out, furious. I told her I was arter a yellow dip-tail, but her wouldn't believe me. 'I'll mak' yer know the taste of the willow'--for there was a great one then by the pond--'and yer won't wish to know it twice,' her said. Farmer folk war masterful then" mused old Timothy; "they held the land from the gentry, and the land was meat and drink." After a pause I asked the old man if he was not enjoying the sunshine. [Sidenote: THE APPLE HOWLERS] "Pretty fair," he replied. "But how about the apples? 'Tis good," he acknowledged, "a bit of summer; but yer should have know'd the summers in the old days," he exclaimed; "they war built up by plenty. Now," he said, sadly, "there's always somethin' agin' summer, like there be agin' most things. Summer blows bain't enough to content poor folks like me. Us old 'uns want our apples bobbin' in beer come Christmas." I then remembered hearing a few days before that the apple-blossom had been sadly nipped by the late spring frosts. "Them as is rich can buy the foreigners," pursued Master Theobalds, "but to poor folks, frosts mean the end of pleasure. But there bain't like to be much fruit now in the orchards," he continued, "since folks have given up the decent customs of their forefathers." "What ones?" I asked. "And how did folks in the years gone by prevent frosts, and blights?" "You'll hear, you'll hear," and old Timothy, in a high squeaky voice of ninety years and more, told me of old Wenlock customs long since forgotten. "I mind me," he pursued, "when it war different; but in grandam's time, it was a regular custom for them as had apple trees and plum orchards to get the young men to go round and catch round the trees with their arms----" "What good did that do?" I asked, somewhat surprised. "What good!" and old Timothy glared at me for this impertinent interpellation. "Why, mam, it was accounted a deed of piety in those days 'to march' the orchards, as folks called it. Religion war a different thing altogether, even when I war a lad," he said sadly. "The devil we thought a lot of 'im in my time--always raging and rampaging up and down, it was supposed. Now, from what I hear, he seems a poor lame kind of played-out devil, broken-winded and drugged; not the rowdy, handsome chap us used to be afeard of. Years agone we thought he could get anywhere--in our houses, in our cupboards, up the chimney, down the wells, anywhere. 'Keep him out,' parsons used to say; and us thought us had done a good job if us could keep him out of our gardens, and from our fruit trees. So the lustiest lads of a parish would come round, call out a benediction, and tramp round. They would--they that war nimble with their fists--have a set-to, mostly, at Wenlock, in the churchyard. Many's the match I've a-seen. Two young fellows fighting, fair and square, as Christians should, and after they had found the best man, they'd go and brace the trees. 'Apple Howlers' folks used to call 'em, and the best man war captain of the lot." "What did they do?" "Why, they used to march in smocks, and with garlands and blows, same as on May Day. Holy Thursday war the great day, I've heard tell, and 'em used to shout till 'em fair broke their lungs, singing such old songs as 'Blow winter snows across the plain,' 'Fair shines my lady's garden,' 'Spring voices strong,' and 'Phoebus smiles on groves anew.' Who Phoebus was I never knowd," remarked old Timothy, "but Salter Mapps used to sing that finely and mak' the whole place alive when he roared it out." "And the maids," I said, "did they have no part in the merry-making?" [Sidenote: "THE MAIDS HELD THEIR PEACE"] "The maids," answered Master Theobalds, severely, "held their peace. If they did anything, they peeped out of the winders, waved hankies, and kissed their hands. 'Twas enough for the maids in those days." "Yes; but tell me," I urged, "about the rite. What did the young men do in the orchards?" "Why, them rampaged round like young cart colts on spring grass, and they seized each others' hands and danced aunty-praunty, as if their arms were made of cart-ropes, round the trees, and they capered like young deer, as the deer do at Apley Park, up beyond Bridgenorth, and they kind of hugged a tree, crying out-- "'Stand fast root, bear well top, God send us a youngling sop. Every twig big apple, Every bough fruit enough.' And then wherever they passed they got cakes and ale. There war holy beer, made from church water caught in a butt from the roof, and that war supposed to be the best--'the life of the season,' folks called it then. And if the lads got a touch too merry, folk knew what to do--they looked the other way. Rough play, rough pleasure; but they war men then." As the old man ceased talking, I remembered having read in some old book on "Strange Customs" an account of "Apple Blow Youling," as it was called in the West. The rite was probably a survival of an old heathen custom. It is supposed that it arose from a Roman practice of giving thanks to Æolus, the god of the winds, and that this pious invocation was instituted by them soon after their conquest of Britain. Anyway, the rite became popular, and long survived the occupation of the Romans; and in some places, apple youling, or howling, went on through the early part of the nineteenth century. There was a pause, and then old Timothy began to talk about the difficulty of inducing village maids to go into domestic service. "They all thinks themselves born ladies now," he said sourly. "There's my cousin Polly Makin's granddaughter, a fine strapping lass to look at, but her went off last week to Birmingham. Dull, 'er said, it be here. What does her mean," asked the old man, in a tone of righteous wrath, "by finding it dull in her native town? When folks found it dull in their native place, when I war a lad, we called 'em stoopid; now they calls 'em larned and too good. Now 'tis all roar and express train. But her'll creep back some day, will Polly--young Polly, and be glad and thankful to find a place to lie her head in. They be all for pleasurin' now, expeditions and excursions, running everywhere with no eyes, that's what I call their modern games." "But in old days, if I had wanted a housemaid or a scullery-maid, what should I have done?" I asked, bringing back my old friend to his subject. [Sidenote: OLD-WORLD SERVANTS] "In old days," replied Timothy, "there warn't no manner of difficulty in the matter. The men and the maids used to stand in their native places on hire, which was a decent, open custom. At Christmas, there war the Gawby Market in the North; at Whitchurch there war the Rag Fair, as they called it; and at Shrewsbury, during fair time, all the farmers and their wives used to go in to engage a maid or a man. At Much Wenlock, I've heard hirin' day was 12th of May; at Church Stretton it used to be on the 14th. At Market Drayton, I've often, in the forties and fifties, seen the carters stand forth, whips in hand, so that all might know their trade, and cry out, 'A driver, a driver, good with a team,' and such-like. Then the lasses wud stand with broom, or milk-pails and make known their callings, and the missuses and the masters would look round and engage who they had a mind to; and they cud mostly all scrub and clean, milk and churn, brew and bake in those days, for they couldn't read nor write, so their hearts were set on housewifely jobs. But now the maids know nought. It is all eddication, all readin' and writin', and they mostly can do nothing with a broom, or a brush. Readin' isn't often much good to 'em what works. Now servant wenches talk of getting engaged; hirin' war the word in the old time. When they war got in the old time, it war for a year, and not a penny did most of 'em get till the year had slipped away." "Wasn't that rather hard?" I asked. "The lads and lasses of the old days," answered Timothy, not without a certain dignity, "took the rough with the smooth. Folks then didn't all spec' to find roast larks dissolved in their mouths when they opened them, any more than to pull roses at Yuletide. Hard work and plenty of it, small pay and long service, that war their lot--the lot of the lads I knew by name. Times war harder than they be now, but Shropshire war a better, more manly place than it be now. Now there's no hirin'. The maids go off to registry offices in back streets. Palaver, dress, and flummery, that's what service be now. They writes up, and off they goes to London, Wolverhampton, or Birmingham. Not much but paper and stamps now in service. A deal of dislikes and not an honest peck of work in the whole year--that's what folks call progress now." Then we passed on to other subjects. "Is the world better, Timothy," I asked, "for the abolition of the stocks, and pillory? Surely the punishments of the old world were very brutal." But my old friend would not allow this. "Rough sinners need rough measures," he said. "The stick, when used properly, be a right good medicine, and when the stick bain't enough, take the lash. They cannot rule, as be afraid of tears. "In old Shropshire the law crushed offence. At Newport the stocks were up till late years, and I mind me 'tisn't more than half a century ago that they were used at Wenlock. They had made a new one, it seems the last, and put it on wheels, so that it might run like a Lord Mayor's coach, they said. But to the last man, Snailey, as they put in, 'twas no punishment, for his friends they handed him up beer the whole way, and he came out drunk as a lord. I've never seen 'em whipped, but grandam did many's the time," continued old Timothy. "One of the posts of the Guildhall made the whippin'-post in the old times. And grandam often told me how she seed 'em herself whipped from the dungeon below the Guildhall to the White Hart Inn, and so round the town. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ THE OLD GUILDHALL.] "When the job was over," pursued old Timothy, "they washed the stripes with salt and water. Old Sally Shake-the-Pail, as they called her, wud come round with salt and water, and sponge their backs. They used, I've heard, some of 'em, to scream fit to leave their skins behind; whilst others, grandam used to say, would never speak, lay on the lash as they would, and walk round the town smilin', so braced up war they, to appear as if they didn't mind a farthin' piece. [Sidenote: PAINS AND JUDGMENTS] "The Judgments, as they war called," continued my informant, "took place on market days. Then it war as they put a bridle on the scolds. "Lor!" chuckled old Timothy, "'tis a scurvy pity as they can't clap 'em on now. There's many a wench as would be the better for it. There be Rachel Hodgkis, own cousin to Young Polly, and Mary Ann James, my great-nevy's wife, as 'twould do pounds of good to. But things are changed now, and 'tis all the women folks as have got the upper hand, and any pelrollick may grin, flount, jeer, and abuse as much as it plaizes her now. But in the old times it war different--different altogether." Then old Timothy went on to say, "Many's the time as I've seen Judy Cookson in a bridle. Her war a terrible sight in one. Her wud scream and yell till her mouth fair ran with blood. Judy, folks said, cud abuse against any--in fact," old Timothy said, with local pride, "I think her cud have given points to many in Shrewsbury. Her war that free with her tongue, and bountiful of splitters. "Besides these old judgments," said Timothy, "I've seen many strange things--sale of wives, and such-like trifles. Did yer ever hear, marm, the story of how Seth Yates sold his wife?" There was a pause, then Timothy drew breath and began afresh. "It must have been seventy years and odd," he declared, "but I mind it all as if war yesterday. A bit of a showery day, rain on and off, but sunshine between whiles. "Yates, the husband, he lived at Brocton, and he and his missus couldn't git on nohow. They fought, they scratched, and scrabbled like two tom-cats that had met on the roof. Mattie, they said, would screech and nag, and then Seth wud take up a stick and lay it on sharp. This went on for weeks, till the neighbours said there was no peace, and that they cud bear it no longer. The hurly-burly and rampage war that disgraceful. "So Mattie thought matters over. She had a Yorkshire cousin at the hall, came from Barnsley, or some such outlandish place, her said, and her thought out, by her advice, how her cud carry out a separation with her man. 'Getting shunt,' Venus, her cousin, named it; for it appears in Yorkshire yer can sell yer wife, same as yer dog, if yer've got a mind, and even the bishops there say 'tis a handy practice. So Mattie said what can be done in Yorkshire can be done in Shropshire, for 'tis the same king as rules over the land. "Seth he spoke up for a private sale; but Mattie said, 'I war married in public, and I'll be sold in public,' for her war fearful of the law, seeing what back-handers the law can give, when they mightn't reasonably be expected. And so they settled as all should be done fair and square, and above board on market day. Then for once folks said the pair they agreed." "Was the sale effected?" I asked. "Simple and straightforward, same as pigs in a pen," replied old Timothy. "The missus, her came into the market, dressed in her Sunday best, in a trim cotton, and wearin' a new and stylish tippet, with fine ends of primrose ribbon, and round her neck her gude man had put a halter. [Sidenote: A WIFE FOR SALE] "When Yates got to Wenlock market, he turned shy and silly. 'Let be, missus,' he said to his wife, 'I'll treat thee fair, if thee'll keep a civil tongue.' But her turned round savage like, like a hen when a terrier pup will meddle with her clutch of chickens, and her flapped her apurn slap in his face. 'I've come in to be sold,' her said, 'and I wull be sold if there's justice in England according to civilized customs.' And them as was standing by roared with laughter, and Tom Whinnall, a cheap Jack, turned to Seth and he cried out, 'Let her be. A man never did wisely yet what kept a woman 'gainst her will. A woman what won't settle, be as mad as a tup in a halter.' So Seth he got shamed like, and he called out, 'Have it thy own way.' And her cried out furious, 'I'd rather go down the river like Jimmy Glover's cat, than bide with thee.' Then she got up in an empty cart, and Tom Whinnall he put her up for auction. Her fetched half a crown and a pot of beer." "And what happened afterwards?" "Oh, nothing much," replied Master Theobalds. "Anyway, Mattie had nothing to complain of. David Richards bought her, a great strapping fellow, that worked for the farmer at the Abbey, afore they turned it back into a mansion. Folks said that Mattie showed off first night, but David he just looked at her, and she minded him from the beginning. The neighbours never heard a sound. He war masterful war David, and he looked blacker than night when he had a mind, which, I take it, is the right way with such as Mattie, for sure enough the two lived happy as Wreken doves in the Bull Ring till Mattie died." "Were there any penances in your time, Timothy?" I asked. Timothy scratched his head and looked puzzled, and at last answered, "I never seed any, but I've heard of 'em. Betty Beaman was the last as I've heard tell of. She had, it seems, to appear before all the people in a white sheet. Her felt it war cruel hard, I've heard grandam say. One day a neighbour told, of how years afterwards, her stood by the pump and told a friend that her had never got over that job. Her felt the misery of it even then. And her hoped some good soul would help the Lord to disremember, if so be she ever got to paradise." Old Timothy stopped talking. "I must get back to my cup of tea," he said simply. I put in his hand a little coin. "This will fill your pipe," I said. "There's nought like backy," he answered. "'Tis meat and drink, and makes yer forget." Then leaning heavily on his stick, the old man got up. I saw him walk past the old watch-tower of the monks, and stop at his old black and white timber house in the Bull Ring. As he pattered along, the brilliant sunshine struck upon his smock, and lighted up the elaborately embroidered yoke. What a changed world it is, I said to myself. How completely one seems to hear the voice of the Middle Ages in listening to old Timothy's tales. Scolds, bridles, whipping-posts, penances, and stocks. As I mused, the sound of all others that belongs essentially to modern England reached me. Within a few hundred yards away I heard an engine puffing up and down. Truly, in this country of ours, the old and the new are very close. I stood up on the base of a broken column, heard the guard's whistle, and saw engine and train go off into the far country. Whilst I was thus engaged, Bess ran up. "Have you done?" she asked. "When you and old Timothy get together, he tells you a pack of rubbish, Nan says." [Sidenote: A TWILIGHT STROLL] That evening, in the twilight, I walked round the bee garden. Mouse lay outside by the wrought-iron gates and watched me. How delicious it is, the first fulfilment of everything in the glory of early June. My white Martagon lilies were covered with lovely little wax-like bells. The English crimson peony blossoms were all out, whilst their Chinese sisters had great knobby buds which would open shortly, and their bronze-tinted foliage was a beautiful ornament to the garden. My hybrid perpetual roses were not yet in flower, for Shropshire is a cold county compared to Sussex or Surrey; but the glory was on the wing, and would come to us surely, if a little later than in the south of England. My single rose bushes were all rich with buds. How lovely Harrisoni would be shortly, I thought. And soon my hedge of Penzance briars would be a perfect barrier of sweetness, I mused. Then I looked below, and saw that my beautiful columbines were nearly all in full perfection. How delicate they were in colouring, in their soft grey, topaz pinks, and die-away lavenders and ambers. They recalled shades of opal seen through flame and sunlight, and fading skies after glorious sunsets. Last summer I got a packet of Veitch's hybrids, and this year I have been amazed at their beauty. Then I passed on to my lupines. They were all in bud, white, blue, and purple, a great joy to the bees. A little further off were great clumps of Oriental poppies, neatly and fully staked by Burbidge. Tied so that they could flower to their heart's content and in full enjoyment of air and sunlight; not tied up in faggots, such as the ordinary gardener delights in. I fondly wandered round and round. How good it was to be out in the opening splendour of June, and to look at everything to one's heart's content. There was no sound of voices. Burbidge and his men had left the garden for the night, only the notes of blackbird and thrush reached me softly from the bushes beyond. To-night they, too, seemed almost dazed, with the glory of summer and were singing below their breath, as if worn out with the beauty of nature. At last I tore myself away from the red-walled garden, and went and looked at the tubs full of geraniums and at the beds on the east side. How cool and happy they looked, and how grateful for the bountiful moisture they had received from hose and water-can. Drops glistened faintly on the stems, and the plants seemed to be drinking in the water with avidity. How good it was, accomplished work, and how sweet the stillness of a summer evening. I stole back into the house and looked on the little table for the letters that had come by the second post. I found one from Mrs. Stanley. "I think," she wrote "after all, that you and Bess have the best of it. For poor little Hals ever since he has been here has been poorly and ailing. Oh! why cannot children be well in London?" I asked Bess the question, for she stood by me, about to say "good night" before going off to the little white cot upstairs. "Why should poor children?" she answered, with a pout. "London is so dull." I kissed my little maid and said, "Then we must get Hals down here." At this Bess clapped her hands. "Of course we must," she cried. "If people want to be happy, they should live at Wenlock." I sat down that evening and asked Mrs. Stanley to send her little boy down to us. "The country just now is so sweet and fresh that it must do him good," I wrote. "We will take the greatest care of him; and here he has all the world to play in." The next morning I told Bess what I had done. "Yes," repeated Bess, gravely, "all the world to play in, and that is what a poor boy can never have in London. There is no place there, excepting for motors and policemen." [Sidenote: AFTER THE RAIN] All through the night sweet summer rain fell. How delightful a morning is after such rain. How happy every plant and leaf looked, how greedily all seemed to have drunk their fill--trees, shrubs, grass, and flowers. What an aspect of deep refreshment everything had, as if an elixir of life had been poured into the veins of every tree and herb. Speckled thrushes hopped about and caught earthworms as they peered up through the lawns. On the stone steps leading up to the red-walled garden lay the broken remains of many dusky shells of the monks' snails, or as the children call them here, "snail housen." Beside these lay also broken fragments of beautiful yellow, and pale pink ones. A little later I walked into the garden to look at my great bed of roses. What a wonderful change one night of rain had made! How the shoots had lengthened, how "the blows," as Burbidge calls them, had expanded. What a difference in the fat buds! The aphides, which seemed such a pest a week before, had vanished, while the leaves were refreshed and glittered with dew-drops. Henricus Stephanus' old lines came back to me-- "The rose, is the care and the love of the spring, The rose is the pleasure of th' heavenly Pow'rs; The boy of fair Venus, Cyther's darling, Doth wrap his head round with garlands of rose When to the dance of the graces he goes." Amongst my beautiful modern roses, I noted that La France was opening two delicious buds. What a beautiful rose it is; and what an exquisite perfume it possesses! Then I found a gorgeous Fisher Holmes, a General Jacqueminot, and a Captain Christy. All these had been born, as Bess calls it, in the night. Besides these modern joys, I paused to notice my old-world friends. I could not pass by without casting a glance upon the loves of Gerard and Parkinson. The pimpernel rose, little Scotch briars of different sorts, the little single rose without thorns, the damask, the yellow cabbage, and the splendid vermilion, the musk, the single cinnamon and the great Holland, all these have their places in different parts of my garden. Parkinson tells us how at Longleete in his time people said that a rose tree then bore white roses on one side, and red on the other; but the old writer looked upon this as a fable, and declared, "This may be as true as the old story that a white hen visited Livia Augusta with a sprig of bays, and foretold, Augusta believed, by so doing empire to Augusta's posterity, and extinction to the race when the brood of the hen failed." Be this as it may, I have a standard rose with a Gloire de Dijon and a General Jacqueminot budded on the same tree. Burbidge was much pleased with the combination of colours and called it Christian and Heathen--names, I fancy, first bestowed by his old wife Hester. [Sidenote: THE GREY MARE AND ROSEMARY] Before I left the red-walled garden, I stopped before a bush of rosemary. I pinched a leaf and picked a little spray on which were some minute blossoms just coming into flower. Farmers' wives of Shropshire use the leaves for flavouring their lard, and a bush or two is to be found in every farmhouse border. I remembered the great bushes of this plant that I saw in the Riviera above Mentone, and near the Italian frontier on the road to Bordighera. I recalled Evelyn's affection for this fragrant plant, and I recollected what he tells us in his delightful diary, after a night at Loumas in 1644, about this delightful aromatic shrub. After passing the Durance, he wrote, "We came upon a tract of country covered with rosemary, lavender, lentiscs and the like sweet shrubs, for many miles together, which to me was very pleasant." Yes, I said to myself, the scent is very pleasant, health and sweetness combined, in which is nothing cloying or sickly. I laughed for the old Shropshire proverb came back to me of "Where the grey mare is stalled, rosemary grows apace." I have heard it said that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was the fashion to put rosemary on and round the corpses of the old. "Vors for maids, rosemary and lavender for those as die old in God," an old cottager once said to me; and the same old body told me that in her mother's time "'twas thought a mark of respect to put a bunch of sweet-smelling herbs round a dear dead face, such as the sage tree, a sprig of thyme, a bunch of lavender, or a branch of rosemary." What a pretty offering such must have been! One can imagine dim figures in the gloaming going up to the chamber of death some summer evening--old friends and gossips in smocks, or with countryside chintz bonnets, and each guest placing a spray of some sweet herb, as a tribute of affection, by the dear dead face that would never wake up, or speak to them again. A few steps from the rosemary bush is my plant of fraxinella. Its stalk glistened with sweet stickiness. It was of the white variety, far more beautiful than the one generally known as the pink. Years ago in an old Hampshire garden I loved as a child, I was taken out by my father's old gardener with my sister to see his "Burning Bush." I recollected, as if it had been only yesterday, that as little girls we had been allowed to sit up once till nine, to see the bush set on fire. I thought then this harmless bonfire the most wonderful and mystic thing that I had ever seen. We went out with our old nurse and saw it lighted at a distance, our old nurse holding both our hands. How wonderful it seemed in the stillness of the summer's evening, with no sound but the distant singing of the birds. I remember how the old gardener, who had lived with father, grandfather and great-uncle, told us the story of the burning bush and bade us read our Bibles, and how we believed for years afterwards that we two had seen a miracle and had stood on holy ground that summer night. For many years I lost sight of the fraxinella as a border plant. The good old gardener of my old home died, and the burning bush was dug up, I heard, under an evil successor, and thrown on the midgeon heap, and alone the memory of the mystic plant and the still summer's evening remained with me. But after my marriage, I remembered spending a June in France, and one day in the first week in June I saw the altar of the cathedral at Laon decked with great sprays of lovely white fraxinella. The scent was intense--heavier than the heaviest incense. I am sensitive to the perfume of flowers, and therefore could not remain long in the edifice, but the odour brought back the memory of the burning bush of my childhood, and I went off to a florist in the market-place and bought two packets of seeds for my Shropshire home. One was a packet of the pink variety, and the other was of the white. When I returned to the Abbey the seeds were sown by Burbidge, but, to quote the old man, "they was as shy of coming up as blows be in snow." We waited and we waited for any sign of life. All through the late summer and autumn there was no symptom of vegetation. The seeds, which were like little black shot, remained dormant. For many months there was no change. [Sidenote: "THE FOREIGNERS" CONDEMNED] At last Burbidge lost all patience. "Put they," and he pointed to the boxes in which the fraxinella seeds were sown, "put they on the midgeon heap, and let the foreigners get their deserts." Happily I stood by when this order was given, and pleaded that they should be left a little longer. One chilly day in February, when the only sign of the return of life seemed the gilding of the willows, I peered into the frame, and I saw, as gardeners say, "my seeds on the move," and in due time my old gardener reared me some half-dozen plants. After some abuse, Burbidge has taken kindly to the "foreigners," and now graciously allows "that yer might do worse than grow fraxinella in a garden." I leant over and smelt the long white spikes, and thought of the old plant in the Hampshire garden. I noticed that the sticky stem was a perfect fly-trap, and that hundreds of little insects were caught and drowned in it like in the leaves of the sun-dew on Scotch moors. It is this sticky fluid, I am told, that burns without injuring the plant, when set on fire on a summer's night. Every part of the fraxinella is redolent of fragrance--leaf, stalk, and petals--later, even the husk of the seed pod. All are exquisitely perfumed; and the husks, if gathered, will retain their sweetness for long months together. A little further off, I stood before my clumps of pinks. I have a great many sorts, and all are deliciously sweet--the sweetest of all flowers I have heard them called. In Chaucer's time it was the fashion, it seems, to talk of the "parwenke of prowesse;" in Sir Philip Sidney's age, writers spoke of "the pink of courtesy." We no longer compare a high and noble spirit to a flower. Do we love flowers less? I walked up and down before my lines of pinks and wondered. I have the lovely Amoor pink, the pretty Maiden, the chocolate brown and white, the delicate little Cheddar, peeping up between stones and rocks, and a lovely little Norwegian variety that a friend brought me back from a fishing-lodge. My little Scandinavian friend has a low habit of growth, in fact, only rears its pink head a few inches from the soil, but its blossoms are of a radiant rose, and deliciously sweet. Later in the day I went down a quiet path in the kitchen garden, that faces east. There were no bright colours there, only sober-tinted old-world herbs. Every monastic garden in the days of the Plantagenets had its herbularis, or physic garden. [Sidenote: THE HERB GARDEN] Here there were little square beds of rosemary, of rue, fennel, linseed, rye, hemp, thyme, woodruff, camomile, mallow, clove, and basil. Of the clove basil Parkinson wrote, that "it was a restorative for a weak heart, and was known to cast out melancholy and sadness." Burbidge still cuts and dries these herbs, and village folks and cottagers from the neighbourhood come for others. "Fennel tea," he tells me, "is good to purify the blood, mallow is excellent for rheumatism, whilst thyme, pounded fine, serves in cases of colic." Boiled lily bulbs for healing wounds, I am told, are also good. Then, in the corner against the wall, there is a patch of the old single violet, which I have heard is very soothing for inflammation, and now often advocated for curing cancer. Also a clump of borage, which Gerard declares, "comforteth the heart, purgeth melancholy, and quieteth the phrantick." A few steps away I saw a patch of crane's-bill, the old geranium of the Middle Ages, which the same writer recommended to be prepared with red snails and to be taken internally. Besides these, nestling against the wall, I noted a plant of golden mouse-ear just coming into blossom. Here they call it "grin the collar." It is a wild plant which the Elizabethan herbalist speaks of with affection, and which he says he found growing in dame Bridget Kingsmill's ground, on distant downs, "not far from Newberry." I saw also bursting into blossom roots of the old single peony. It was of the sort that I have been told must be gathered in the night, or else the ill-fated gatherer may be struck blind. Some years ago, I remembered once asking for a blossom of this sort in a cottage garden to copy in my embroidery. But the old woman to whom the plant belonged would not hear of picking a flower. "Best leave it--best leave it," she had said. I thought her churlish for the moment, and then thought no more about it; but the same evening, whilst we were at dinner, a blossom of the single peony was brought in to me on a salver, and I was told that little Betty, old widow Hodgkis's granddaughter, had run up from below the Edge "to pleasure me." Granny, said the child, had told her that "you're welcome to it, and that, bein' as it is there, was no ill-luck." On being pressed to explain, the child had answered, "Us dursn't pick that blow early, but granny says, picked at night, peonies be as safe as Job Orton in his shop, but in noontime 'tis only suckin' gulleys as wud pick 'em." For some moments I could not get the reason out of the little maid, but at last, when we were alone, she whispered to me. "'Tis along of the ecalls. If one war to see yer in the day, madder yer'd be than a tup at Bridgenorth fair, and blind, behappen." There is also in Shropshire a lingering belief that the seed of the single peony has magic powers to soothe and quiet women. A young widow, who had lost her husband in an accident connected with the blasting of the lime rock, obtained sleep by drinking a tea made from the seeds, I was assured. [Sidenote: THE PHYSICIAN OF THE GODS] "My Jane," her mother said, "couldn't sleep nohow before. It was rocks, and falls in darkness, and screams all the time with her, let her do what she would. Her got fair tired of physic, nothing the doctor gave her seemed to bring peace, or to padlock her tongue. Then came Jill Shore," I was told, "as lives halfway up the heights of Tickwood. A witch some counted her, and her made my Jane lie down, and her charmed her with verses and made her drink a draught of peonina seed. And Jane her fell asleep, like a lamb beside its dam, and her slept, and slept, and woke up reasonable and quiet, and for all she was mortal sad, she was a decent soul again, and gave up screeching and tearing out her hair, and screaming out things not fit for a decent body to say." Then there was, at the end of the garden, a plant of goat's rue, and a patch of mustard seed. An old writer declared that mustard would take away the black and blue marks that come from bruises. How that may be, I know not, but later on we shall take up the crop, root and blossom, and dig in the plants as manure into the fresh ground where we hope to grow our tulips for next year. It is the best manure that can be given to tulips, and an old secret amongst the tulip growers of past centuries. Just beyond the crop of mustard I saw a root of wild clary. In some of the old herbals this plant was accounted an excellent remedy for weak eyes, and Gerard tells us that it was a common practice in his day to put the seeds into poor folks' eyes, to cure disease. Just by the door that led into the paddock, there was a plant of woodruff. Very delicate and sweet is the scent of this little flower. It grows in great patches under the hazel trees of the Edge Wood. Formerly woodruff was used in church decoration, and was deftly woven into many garlands. In the north of Europe woodruff is still used as a herb to flavour drinks. I never heard of this being done in England, but in Shropshire it is often culled in the farmhouses to put in muslin bags, in the place of lavender. It has a sweet scent, which remains with letters and kerchiefs like a memory of the past. Then there was, I saw, a plant of wormwood, the plant from which absinthe is distilled. In the sixteenth and seventeenth century the leaves of this plant were chopped up for flavouring, and it was thought an excellent seasoning to venison. By the wormwood there was a line of camomile. A little later in the summer the plants will be covered with little white star-like blossoms. Burbidge will cut stalks and flowers and his wife will dry them in the sun, and give them away to the parents of sick children. "My missus," the old man once said to me, "mostly does her kindnesses by nastiness. Her will," he added, "fair poison a body to keep her alive." But though Burbidge allows himself the privilege of a free tongue as regards his wife's remedies, he permits no criticism elsewhere. On one occasion one of "his boys" objected to a gigantic draught of ales-hoof and mallow, flavoured with camomile. "What dost thee stand there for, loselling?" was the vigorous rebuke I heard addressed by my old friend, as the victim hesitated to drink down at a gulp, a bumper of a frothy brown fluid. "I tell thee, Roderick, if it fair blows off thy stomach, it will make a new man of thee." "I canna," feebly protested Burbidge's man. But he had to; for as my old gardener said, with a purple face of wrath, "I and my missus don't make physic for folks to chuck abroad, and a man that works under, needs must drink under." Whatever the immediate effect of the awful beverage was, I cannot say, but this I do know, Roderick did not die; he even looked as usual a week later. Few gardeners now have their herb plots, but through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries ladies and their waiting-women made household medicines, and administered these themselves to the villagers, and to the members of their households. Suddenly, whilst I was looking at my herbs and thinking of how they were used in earlier days, the garden door was thrown abruptly open and Bess danced in before me. "What a time you have been away!" she cried. "I can't run about, and only look at flowers or watch idle birds. Hals is coming, that is what I have to think of." I went into the house after luncheon, my chair and table were carried out, and I sat and embroidered. This time I worked a cherubim's face, who possessed long locks and had dark-blue eyes. "I am going to give him chestnut hair," I said; and I looked out six different shades of reddish-brown to produce the desired effect. [Sidenote: BESS TALKS OF HEAVEN] "He ought to be pretty," said Bess, who had seated herself by me. "Good children should be beautiful." "Why?" I asked. "Why?" repeated Bess. "Why, because God could never do with ugly little squinting things up there. He wouldn't want boys that had crooked noses and red warty hands, and ugly eyes that didn't look straight." "But suppose, Bess, the good children," I urged, to see what Bess would say, "had crooked noses, red warty hands, and squinting eyes, what must be done then?" "Oh, mamsie, you don't understand heaven," said Bess, loftily, "but I and Prince Charming do," and she hugged her puppy. "We do. We know that God can't have ugly boys in His garden, or what would the poor girl angels do? I know what heaven is like--beautiful, beautiful," and my little maid stood panting with excitement before me. "All the flowers all out, and all the fruit quite ripe, and you may pick what you like, and no cross Nanas ever make you wash, or go to bed until you're quite, quite tired." "Have you ever been there?" I asked, smiling at my little girl's enthusiasm. "Once," said Bess. "Nana said I was asleep, but I know better. The snow was on the ground, deep, deep, but I wasn't frightened, for when I looked out--and I got out of bed all myself, when Nana was at supper--I saw the stars, and I knew the angels were close to me; and when I crept back to bed I said, 'God make me good,' and I didn't sleep, but I went to heaven, and that's better than a picnic on the Edge, or making toffee with Mrs. Langdale. So you see I know there are no ugly people in heaven, because, mamsie, I've been there." "But in your philosophy, Bess," I answered, "what happens to poor people, sick people, old people, all the people who have worked for God and done the work of His kingdom here?" "Oh, God," said Bess, softly, "God gives them all prizes. When you give children prizes at the school, they don't get nothing more, but when God gives one prize they get everything." "Everything?" I asked. "Yes," said Bess, "dolls, cakes, pups. And then they play, and are always young, and they never have rheumatics, not even colds or coughs." I kissed my little girl and told her to dream of heaven again. [Illustration: _Photo by Mr. W. Golling_. THE ORATORY.] A minute or two later, and Bess was off chasing a butterfly. "Mama," she said after a long chase, when she returned to me with a scarlet face and dripping temples, "do you know that Mrs. Burbidge's nephew, Frank Crossley, has brought her back a beautiful glass case, and it's full of butterflies--real butterflies. There's a beautiful blue one--all blue, and a red one, and a yellow one, like the gorse you told me not to pick because it was so prickly, and one green, like the Edge Wood when you look below and can't see a cornfield, and can only hear flies buzzing. And do you know Frank caught them all himself, and he stuck a pin into each to keep them tight, and spread their wings as if they were flying; but they can't really fly for they've always got to stay in his box." Then, after a gasp, my little maid put her hand in mine, "Mama, may I have a net and a box, and some pins, for I should like to have what Burbidge calls a 'collection'?" "But you won't like to hurt butterflies, Bess?" I said. "Just think how horrid it would be to run pins through them and to pin down their beautiful wings in boxes." [Sidenote: "STUPID LITTLE INSECTS CANNOT FEEL"] "Well," said Bess, "I suppose I shouldn't like that at first, but Frank doesn't mind. I'm not an ignorant little insect," said Bess, loftily, "and you won't make me believe, mamsie, that stupid little insects can feel like girls or boys." I did not argue, for I am aware that the best wisdom of the child comes sometimes from the silence of the parent, rather than from the speech; but I felt sure my words would come back later to Bess, and that when she had had time for reflection, her better nature would make her give up the wish to have a collection of butterflies. Whilst we thus sat on, Nana swooped down and captured Bess. "I must wash your face and hands, miss, before going to the station," she said tartly, and at the same time informed me that a poor woman was waiting outside in the monk's passage, who wished to speak to me. "I can't make head nor tail of what she wants," said Nana, sourly. "A pack of rubbish and not a grain of sense, that's what we often feel about our neighbours' sayings and doings," I answered. "But ask her to come and see me." Mrs. Milner disappeared, and in a few moments reappeared, followed by a little brown, undersized woman, with a mahogany skin, and wrinkled like a walnut. Mrs. Eccles was a little hunchback, and had come from the Dingle to see me. She walked a bit lamely, and carried a stick. Mouse gave a growl, and Prince Charming, who had rolled himself up on the edge of my skirt, tumbled up with a snort, and a gruffle. I begged the poor woman not to be afraid, told her to sit on a bench close by, and asked her mission. "'Tisn't no flannel, no, nor no dinners neither, not even a packet of tea," she answered. For a moment Nana returned to fetch a ribbon or a tie--some lost possession of Bess's. On seeing her Mrs. Eccles remained silent, for, as she whispered, "'twas a private matter." Then when Nana had disappeared, her courage returned, and she blurted out, "I knows as yer have one, for all Mr. Burbidge says. There always was one--one out alongside of the walled garden." I felt puzzled, but nodded and begged my old friend to tell me what it was she had come for. But a direct answer is not often to be got from the poor, you must wait for an answer, as a dear old clergyman once said to me, "as you must wait for flowers in an English spring." So I threaded my needle with a brilliant brown, and Mrs. Eccles's speech bubbled on, like a brook in February. [Sidenote: MRS. ECCLES'S MISSION] "It be in this way, for I know this place, same as the inside of my own kitchen," she said. "Didn't I work here fifty years agone, in the old days? I knowed this place," she said, looking round, "afore it war a haunt of the gentry, when it was farmer folk as lived here, and when I war a servin' wench, when I scrubbed, and cleaned, plucked geese at Yule-tide, and helped the missus in making mince-meat, and in making butter for the market. I know'd it then, and I knows it now." I tried to stem the old dame's eloquence, for the time I had at her disposal was limited; but my little old guest was voluble, and I had to sit quiet to learn her mission. At last light pierced through her discourse, and I discovered that she had come down for a leaf, or a sprig, of some plant. "You must come round and show me what it is you want," I said at last; and I covered up my embroidery and prepared to take her to the herb plots in the kitchen garden, as the most likely spot to find out what she was in need of. But halfway, Mrs. Eccles stopped dead, shook her head, and called out, "It never grow'd there, I be sure it never did. I know it does there," and she pointed back to the Abbey, "for I have a-know it afore yer was born, and, my dear, it war along top-side of the mound, at back of the red wall, where the missus used to grow her fever drinks, and where they put in cabbages for Christians and cows alike." As she spoke my funny old friend turned her back on the kitchen garden, and made for the quadrangle as hard as her old legs would take her. Mouse and I followed hot-foot behind. Suddenly Mrs. Eccles came to a dead stop at the foot of a green slope, on which the red wall was built, and pointed with her black stick, at a green shrub above her. "There her be," she cried triumphantly, "sure enough, same as a galenny's nest, snug and safe." I scrambled up the bank, and Mouse followed with a bound. The old body was almost breathless for a minute, but went on pointing like a pointer at the shrub. "What is it for?" I asked. The shrub in question was a bay tree, and in a severe winter in the nineties, had almost died, but last spring it revived somewhat, and sent out a few weakly branches this summer. "What does I want it for?" repeated Mrs. Eccles. "Why I wants it for salvation; to save my boy from the Lightning." Then she went on to tell me, with a burst of eloquence, about the Shropshire belief, to the effect that a spray of bay-leaf, or a feather of an eagle, if worn in a cap or hat, can preserve the wearer from lightning. "The big hawk's feather, there's none as can get now," she said. "The railways and the holiday-makers have killed they, but they have left the bay trees." Then I remembered having heard that Mrs. Eccles's husband, some forty odd years ago, had been killed whilst haymaking, struck by lightning. "'Twas the death of Job, his fork," an old man had once told me. "The lightning came clean down, and struck him by the command of the Lord." "If my gude man had had but a sprig, he might have been hearty now," broke from Mrs. Eccles; and she went on to tell me that her grandson, Joseph Holroyd, "war goin' to work for Farmer Church, and that she had come here, for I know'd as you'd provide." I opened the little knife on my chain, and cut off a sprig and gave it to my old friend. [Sidenote: AN OLD PAGAN BELIEF] She bobbed low, and scuttled away. "Won't you have a cup of tea?" I called after her. But she shook her head, and cried out, "Nay, nay, I have my widdies (ducks) to feed;" and as I stood and looked, the little brown figure disappeared up the drive. When I went back to the east garden, I thought over my conversation with Mrs. Eccles, and I recollected having read somewhere, that the Romans believed that a phoenix's feather, if it could be obtained and worn in the bosom, would avert disaster; and a learned friend once told me that the Emperor Tiberius was much alarmed by thunder, and always wore a wreath of laurel round his neck if the weather was stormy, because he believed that laurels were never blasted by lightning. So I reflected that my old friend, bred amidst the wilds of Shropshire, held, after all, unconsciously an old pagan belief, of which the plume from the big hawk was only another version of the phoenix's feather, whilst the laurel and the bays sprang, likely enough, from the same legend. Whilst revolving the old beliefs of past empires in my mind, I was called back to the present by Bess rushing up to me, and calling out-- "Where have you been Mum, Mum? We shall be late, I know we shall be late. And if Hals didn't find some one to meet him, what would he say?" "I'm sure I don't know," I said penitently. "Nor me," retorted Bess, indignantly. So without more ado, my daughter, Prince Charming and I walked up a golden field of glittering buttercups to the station. We waited on the platform. The train was late--when isn't the train late in the country?--and Bess and I sat down on the long bench that faced the line. Bess seemed lost in a brown study. "A penny for your thoughts, miss," I said. "Mum," replied Bess, dreamily, "I am thinking and thinking----" "Yes, dear?" "What is the use of London?" The subject is rather large, I urged. But Bess had the sharp, incisive intellect of a quick child, and stood firm to her opinion. "I don't see," she said, "that noise, shows, and smart people make use. Why should poor children be taken to London? If the grown-ups want it, they had better go there by themselves." "My dear little person," I said, "even the youngest of others must sometimes do disagreeable things, even in the twentieth century." But this was a hard matter for an only child to understand, and Bess would have none of it. At the same moment, we heard the noise and rattle of the approaching train, and our discussion broke off abruptly. A second later the train had stopped, and the guard alighted and opened a first-class compartment, and proceeded to lift out little Hals. Bess dashed up breathless. The children were too excited to embrace each other. They only rushed to each other, took each other's hands, and went on dangling them, and blushing like two rose buds. Whereupon so, Prince Charming fell with a yelp to the ground. Happily, I was by to pick up and console the poor little puppy. A quiet, nice-looking young woman came out, bearing in her arms a host of packages and rugs. In a minute or two Hals' luggage was collected, and we walked down across the buttercup field to the old Abbey, whilst swallows flew overhead, and sunshine chased purple clouds across the sky. [Sidenote: HALS ARRIVES] "Fräulein is not here?" I heard Bess say to Hals. "No," answered Hals. "Then," whispered Bess, "I shall be able to pray to-night. For all God lives so far, I think He can understand a girl sometimes." "That's handy," agreed Hals, shortly. "Yes," answered Bess; "He knew what I wanted at Christmas all of His own accord, and now He has left out Fräulein, and He couldn't have done better, even if He had been papa." To this, Hals made no answer, but both children danced with glee. Then followed tea, and two hours afterwards, bed. When my little girl was in bed, I went up and found her, and said the last good-night. Her eyes shone like little stars, and she put her arms round my neck. "Mum--Mum," she said, so I went quite close. "I thought," said my little maid, "when I had got Prince Charming, that I never could want anything else, but I do now want something bad--bad." "Yes?" I answered. "Is there nowhere," pursued my little girl, "where one can buy a brother? I want one so bad." The children and I passed a happy week--a week of golden sunshine. Miss Weldon went off and spent the time with a cousin at Hereford, and I was left alone with lad and lass. We read, and talked, and played. There were no lessons, but I told them "lovely stories." Beautiful old legends, pretty tales from history, and I read aloud from Hans Andersen, and parts of Charles Kingsley's delicious "Water Babies." "I think," said Bess one day as I closed the book, "that I love Tom best of all as a little sweep." "Yes," said Hals, "for he was so game, running across the moor all by himself. When I am a man, I hope I shall never be afraid. I am sure my father never is." Then, after a pause, he added, "Some day I shall be a soldier, and fight the king's enemies." "So shall I," said Bess. But this Hals would not allow. "Girls cannot fight," he assured me, gravely. "They can only scratch. Besides, boys cannot fight girls, so it wouldn't be fair." "Then I must fight girls," said Bess, sadly; "but I'm afraid that wouldn't be much fun, for girls mostly pinch, and run away." The weather was beautiful during Hals' stay with us. The Shropshire fields and woods seemed all under an enchanter's wand. Blue mist lay on the Wrekin and on the Clee. Sunshine glowed all the day, and in the evening, glorious sunsets, and tranquil twilights. After tea, we sometimes took Jill, the little pony, and the children rode one behind the other along the lanes. All the hedges were redolent with honeysuckle, and great pink sprays of the most exquisitely lovely of all flowers, the wild dog-rose, curled over branch and stem; whilst larks sang over green seas of rippling wheat, which moved in broad waves over stormless, summer seas. [Sidenote: WE MEET THADY] Far away I showed the children one evening the Brown Clee, the land of witches and romance to Shropshire youth. No rain fell, no tempests gathered. It was June, and the perfection of June weather. Sheets of buttercups glistened in the meadows, moon-daisies nodded in the upland grasses, and over disused lime-kilns blew beds of rosy thyme and rock-roses, whilst here and there, on the outskirts of forest lands, we found the sweetest of all wild flowers--pale butterfly orchises, with their strange sweet perfume, which, as Bess said, made you long to live, only in afternoons. Thady one day joined us in one of our expeditions. He got up from a bush suddenly as we were passing--bare-legged, jovial, courteous, as only an Irish lad can be. "The 'top of the morning,' mam," he cried, and his face lit up with a simultaneous smile. "It is afternoon," I laughed. "Whatever the hour or the season, 'tis only well I wish yer," he replied, with the spontaneous politeness of the Celt. "Have you anything pretty to show us?" I asked. "Yes," repeated Bess, "show us something pretty." "Well," said Thady, looking down, "it's getting late, I'm thinking, for seeing sights; most that's young is getting fledged. But I know a field where there's a lot of little leverets, soft as down, pretty as kittens." So we followed on. I led Jill, with Bess riding on a boy's saddle, and Hals followed behind. We passed a wild, rough field, with the steep pitch of the Edge Wood on one side, and the view of a great stretch of country up to Shrewsbury, and beyond. To the west we saw Caer Caradoc and the Long-mynd sleeping in purple haze. Then we passed through a hunting wicket, and went into another rough-and-tumble field, with rampant thistles, full of old disused lime-kilns, and sheep-nipt bushes of thorns. "What lovely places to play in!" cried Bess, enthusiastically. "Perhaps real gnomes and goblins live there, and if we stayed till the church-tower clock struck twelve, we might really see them in red caps. The sort, mamsie, that you and I know. Perhaps," she added, "then they might bring us gold. You know they do." "Begorra!" cried Thady, indulgently, "if yer was to come here at midnight, yer couldn't count them for jostling, the leprechauns and such like gentry. They be plentiful as faiberries in Muster Burbidge's garden in August." At this Hals said gravely, "I should like to come and see them one night, although I have never heard my father speak of them. I don't think he knows many goblins at Westminster." "Westminster," retorted Thady, magnificently, "is a poor place for meeting anything but common men and women." Then we walked on in single file, for I had to guide the pony with care, for the pitches on each side of the path were steep and slippery. In one part of the field there was a large round clump of white dog roses, such as are often to be found in waste places, with brilliant yellow stamens and bronze-coloured stalks and buds. "I think 'tis here as you'll find, missie, the little yellow fluffs at home," said Thady. Evidently in the innermost recesses of the rose bush there was a fine scent of something very good to the canine mind, for Mouse pricked up her ears, sniffed boisterously, and began to move her tail like a fox-hound drawing a covert. Then with a great swirl and pounce, she darted right into the brake, bending and breaking all by her weight, and brought out in her mouth a little ball of fluff. The poor little creature screamed in terror, almost like a child. I rushed forward. "Mouse, Mouse!" I cried, "drop it, drop it!" [Sidenote: THE LITTLE HARE] Mouse looked at me reproachfully out of her topaz eyes, held it, but allowed me to pass my fingers between her great jaws and to release the little captive. Great was my delight to find that poor little puss was quite unhurt, only very wet with my dog's saliva. I sat down, and Thady lifted off Bess from the pony, and then the children flocked round to see the long-eared little creature I was holding in my arms. "Isn't it pretty?" I said, and held up the little tawny ball of fluff. "Look what lovely brown eyes it has, and what tender shades of buff and fawn are in its long ears." "Let us take him home," cried Bess, enthusiastically. "But," I asked, "how about Tramp and Tartar? They would not be gentle like Mouse." And I added, "It was lucky that they did not come with us this afternoon. They would not only have caught the little leveret, they would have killed him, too." Bess agreed. "They are very wicked for all their nice ways." And then she added dreamily, "I wonder if terriers ever go to heaven." "Begorra! if it is the holy Mother that has a fancy for the breed, I'll be bound she gets them past St. Peter. 'Dade," said Thady, "if I was the saint, I'd never shut the door in a good bitch's face." "Well," says Bess, after a little pause, "for all terriers kill things, they love us badly; and, besides, there may be rats in heaven." "How about heaven, then, being quite a perfect place?" I asked, for I must plead guilty to a strong dislike to rats. "Mum, Mum," answered Bess, impatiently, "you must leave the poor Lord a few rats, or what would his poor dogs do?" I laughed and had no answer ready, for a child's wit is generally the hardest to fight. The best being bred by simplicity and kindness of heart. A minute later I slipped back my little furry nursling into the rose-bush, and we threaded our way across the fields. As we retraced our steps no bird sang, only the faint barking of a dog in some distant farm reached our ears, and away in the hollow came the far-off sound of distant church bells. We walked along grassy fields, down dim lanes, and beside the budding wheat. Thady was to come down and get a slice of cake and a glass of milk. "With raisins, real raisins!" exclaimed Bess. The prospect of the feast opened his heart. "Begorra, I'll tell you at last," he cried, with a sly chuckle, and he bubbled over with laughter. "You shall hear all about the job. Yer leddyship," continued Thady, "has taught me to hate the thieving of a poor bird's nest, same as the blessed Virgin has taught me to be a Christian." I nodded in approbation, but did not quite understand; but then that, as Bess says, "never matters, if you're not found out." In a minute Thady went on--whilst I led both children, mounted on old Jill--and told me of an adventure of his. "It was this ways," he said. "Two gentlemen last month came over from Manchester, and they put up at the Raven. I watched them come, out of the corner of my eye--and 'tis little," Thady added, "that escapes me at such times. So when they had been round the churchyard, and peered at the ruins, as is the habits of town-bred folks, I made so bold as to approach them. Indade, I had kept, ever since they left the hotel, remarkably near them. My mother watched me up the Bull Ring, for she knowed that I had a bit of somethin' up my sleeve, and as I passed, lookin' as dacent as a lad that had just been bishopped, she whispered, 'Ye spalpeen, what be yer tricks?' But I shook her off, as a lad of spirit should, for when yer minded to have a bit of fun, give yer mother a wide berth sure. "Such is the advice of Thady Malone," and my little friend drew himself up loftily, and spoke as one who had solved a hard problem. [Sidenote: THE RUN OF THE SEASON] "I followed the gentlemen right enough," he continued, "and never took my eyes off them, but kept on with them, eyeing and peering round, same as a hawk above a clutch of chickens. And by their talk I made out it was after specimens that they had come. I crept round by a bush, and discovered, right enough, it was after birds and eggs that they had journeyed; and at last one of 'em, the tall, dark, lean 'un, he called out to me, and he said to the fat, sandy-whiskered one that was standing by, 'Perhaps this lad could help us.' Then he turned to me. 'My lad,' he said, 'we want to go over a bit of wild country, and to see a bit of wild life. Take us to a wood that is known here as the Edge Wood. They say rare birds still nest there. Hawks, we've heard, some of the scarce tomtits, and one or two of the rare fly-catchers, and we want to get some eggs.' Said I to myself, 'Thady, yer shall have fine sport.' But one of them, the lean 'un, had a nasty stick, so I said, 'Thady, my man, be careful;' but comforted myself after a bit, for 'tis only on louts' backs that sticks need fall. Then I stood up and answered bold, 'Is it the big hawk that your honours want, or the fern owl, the sheriff-man, or any other fowl?' Begorra, and indade yer leddyship, there was no fowl that I wouldn't have pretended acquaintanceship with. And they nodded, and I nodded, and they, the fat and the lean, they winked, and I winked, and they talked of eggs and fine prices, and they offered me shillin's, beautiful silver shillin's; but I said I'd serve them for the pleasure, for though silver is good, a bit antic is better. Besides," added Thady, gallantly, "what her leddyship has taught me, I canna unlearn," and Thady bowed to me with the instinct of a born courtier. "So I started at a trot," pursued Thady, "and I sang out, 'Gentlemen, I'm yer man,' and I gave a bow and then away, as hard as I could make the pace, and they followed on, like two mad bullocks, or fox-hounds in full cry, and away we tore, over the fields, up the lanes, along the high-road where need be. On, on, I headed 'em like a young he-goat. I'm allus in training, and they followed. I gave 'em a splendid lead over field and fallow, and whenever the fat 'un panted bad, I told 'im to cheer up, for the fern owl and the great hawk's nests were just ahead. "At last they began to get a bit rusty. Like enough, by the twinkle of my eye, they began to fear as their cases would never get filled. So I shouted out, as if I were leading the king's army. 'Keep up your peckers, misters, a field more and yer'll see the great hawk hisself,' and so on up a sharpish pull. I looked back, and saw 'em fair sick--the lean one coming on, but the fat sandy 'un fit to burst. I stopped to catch the breeze, and in the pause I shouted out, 'Yer'll find the nest with old Bolas, or where folks says the crows fly at nights,' and I laughed; and then, begorra, I ran like the best Jack-hare that ever I set eyes on. And when they guessed I had had a bit of a spree, they didn't take it kindly, not at all, at all, but called out no end of bad words--words," said Thady, sanctimoniously, "that I never could repeat in your leddyship's hearing, and that shocked even poor me. So I kept at a proper distance, for the stick that the lean gent had was a right nasty one, and," added Thady, "a wise man only stops to argue with men of his own size. But I did hear they went up to the station that evening, those two poor gentlemen with never an egg or a grub in their cases, and the porter did say that they made tracks to Manchester like two bears with sore heads. 'Tis wonderful how some folks can never see a joke." [Sidenote: THE NATURALISTS GO EMPTY AWAY] "Few of us can do that when the joke goes against us," I answered laughing. "But I am glad, Thady, that you played them a trick. Naturalists of that sort are a pest. In the name of science, they rob our woods, and exterminate all our rare birds and butterflies. Every honest man's hand should be against them." At this Thady grinned all over, "Indade," he said, "I'll remember yer leddyship's words of wisdom to my dying day, and never let go by a chance of honest amusement." So speaking we reached the old Abbey Farmery. Hals and Bess, drowsy from their long expedition, were lifted off the pony half asleep. We all had a standing meal, which, as Bess said, was much better than sitting down, because you never eat what you don't want; and then the young life vanished--Bess and my little guest to bed, and Thady into the silent fields, and only Mouse was left to keep me company. I agreed that evening with the children, that it is very nice sometimes to have no dinner, and to return to simple habits, because the sense so of wood and field lingers longer with you. CHAPTER VII _JULY_ "As late each flower that sweetest blows, I plucked the garden's pride; Within the petals of a rose, A sleeping love I spied." COLERIDGE. I wandered round the garden some ten days later. It was July, the Queen of Summer in the North. I heard the swish of the mowers' scythes, as wave after wave of blossoming grass fell beneath their feet. As I looked, I noticed that the trees had taken a darker, fuller shade of green, and that the apple and emerald tints which delighted me so much in budding June, had fled before the fierce days of full summer heat. Although the lawns were still verdant, and such as you could only see where the summer rainfall is great, all traces of spring were gone. The polyanthus and cowslips' umbels were crowned with seeds, and the narcissi in the grass had almost vanished. Birds, that a few weeks ago were funny little fluffy creatures, with orange, gaping throats, were now strong on the wing. Tramp and Tartar pursued one day a thrush across the lawn. I ran out of the house to save him, but found, to my relief, that he could take good care of himself. With a triumphant scream he flew to the top of the high yew hedge. In vain the two little terriers leapt and whimpered below, and besought him to come down and be killed. For all he was young, he was wise, and continued to sit on a twig, and to look down on their efforts with complacent indifference. [Sidenote: MOSS ROSES IN BLOOM] When I went into the walled garden, I found the moss roses in full blossom. They are most beautiful, the most delicate, perhaps, of all the roses. There was an old-fashioned pink, such as one used to see at Covent Garden Market years ago. I had in my row Blanche Moreau, an exquisite paper white, Maître Soisons, another beautiful white, and the crested and deep purple Deuil de Paul Fontaine. How delicious they all were! Just a little sticky, perhaps, but very sweet; especially an old cottage pink variety that I was given from a garden at Harley, and the name of which I have never known. The kind donor, an old dame, I remember, told me, when she gave me a cutting and I pressed for the name, that it hadn't no name as far as she knew, but that she called it her "double sweetness," for it was to her nose, she affirmed, "honey and candy in one." Then I noted, bursting into bloom on the other side of the path, rows of Chinese Delphiniums of all colours, that Burbidge had raised from some seed sent to me from a lovely Scotch garden in the far north. The blossoms were of all colours. There were some of an exquisite watery tender turquoise blue, some deep blue de Marie, and others, a faint and celestial tint, as of the sky on soft February days. Besides these there were opal twilights, and darkest indigoes. I paused and looked down the Ercal gravel path, and stood gazing at my forests of peonies. The English ones were over, but round the clematises were masses of the Chinese sorts. They were of all colours--crimson, carmine, white, purple, cream, pink, rose. How wonderfully beautiful they were, what satiny pinks, what splendid roses, what creamy whites! In the borders I noticed a few plants of the beautiful tree or Moutan peony, the most glorious kind of all, but which had flowered rather earlier. My plants as yet were small, but "Elisabeth" had had one blossom of deepest scarlet. And I was led to hope that Athlete, Comte de Flandres, and Lambertiana would be strong enough next year to be allowed to flower. A few steps beyond I paused to look at my Austrian briar hedge, which was then literally, a line of flame in my garden. It was a glorious note of colour, and planted next to the hedge were patches of purple peonies. What a beautiful contrast the two made! one that Sandro Botticelli loved. Then I made my way to a bed of hybrid teas. These delightful roses, as has been justly said, combine all that is best of old and new. Almost all of them are sweet scented, and even in cold latitudes they flower twice, freely, in each year. Amongst those that I love best are Augustine Guinoiseau, and Camoens. Beyond these, on the southern side of the garden, extend my great bed of hybrid perpetuals, which stand our cold Shropshire climate so bravely and bloom often into late November. I stopped to admire a beautiful specimen of the Earl of Dufferin that seemed almost purple in its sombre magnificence, and felt almost dazzled at the splendour of Éclair. Then I paused to smell a Fisher Holmes, and gathered an almost black rose, which Burbidge told me a few days ago was a new rose to him, and was called the Black Prince. Such a mysterious black rose as it was, with a faint sweet distant smell, like new-mown grass after a summer shower. [Sidenote: IRISES AND ROSES] Between each row of roses I have planted rows of the beautiful English and Spanish irises in turns. These bulbs, I find, like the damp and shade caused by the neighbourhood of the bushes, and the effect of yellow, purple, blue, and lavender, between the pink, red, and white of the roses was enchantingly beautiful. Then I looked upwards and was delighted to see that my Crimson Ramblers and Ayrshire and Penzance briers were all ramping away to my, and to their, hearts' content over their pillars, and covering their bowers and arches with trails and clusters of glory. I call my arches and bowers my garden in the clouds. Nobody quite knows how beautiful the Crimson Rambler can be till they have seen it against a background of summer sky. Just out of the garden stretched the plantation of firs, Scotch and Austrian, with a border of ribes, laurels, hollies, and yews. The plantation is very small, but it gives a sense of silence between the Abbey and the old town. Before I returned to the house, I made my way to my bed of annuals. They were on the southern side of the greengages. How gay and gorgeous they looked with a few orange-tip butterflies flying over them. There were patches of African marigold, all a blaze of rich velvety gold, pale Love-in-the-Mist, sea-tinted and mysterious. Love-in-the-Mist is just such a flower as one can imagine Venus wore when she appeared for the first time from the depth of the sea foam, with its curious shadow of green, and its sea-green petals of blue. Then I had in full flower little square beds of larkspur, raised from some wonderful seed I bought from Messrs. Smith, of Worcester, that had blossomed forth in a hundred shades of opalescent beauty. There were shadowy unreal reds, and purples of many shades and colours in one flower, and as I looked at them, they recalled the wonderful draperies of some Burne Jones figures in that great artist's paintings from the Idylls of the King. A little further off there were lines of stocks of all colours, warm-tinted buff, like the hue of Scotch cattle browsing on a moorland, primrose, bluish rose, dusky red, and spotless white, with creamy hearts. Then flame-coloured nasturtiums ran along in places, black and brown, and twisted and twined wherever there was a little space. At the end of the long border there were patches of the primrose-tinted sweet sultan, with its exquisite scent, mixed with crimson cockscomb, over which old Gerard fell into ecstasies, and wrote of the "gentle," as he called it, that it "far exceeded his skill to describe so beautiful, and excellent a plant." Before I returned to the Abbey, I slipped off to the kitchen garden to ascertain what progress my sweet peas had made. They were only as yet showing buds and long tendrils, but in another month they would be a glory of sweetness and brilliancy, I felt certain. As I retraced my steps to the Abbey, I was greeted by the children. During his visit to the Abbey little Hals had lost his delicate look, and fine pink roses bloomed on each cheek. He and Bess came dancing up the path hand-in-hand, and the little fox-terriers scampered behind them, joyously. "I am sure we have found something," cried Bess, excitedly. "Burbidge wouldn't look because he's been stung by a bee. 'But,' I said, 'you don't hear all that chattering for nothing. If only Thady were here we should soon know.' I wanted to run off to the Bull Ring to fetch him, but Nana said I wasn't to mess myself, as Aunty Constance was coming down to luncheon to-day. Much she'd care! She knows I can have as much soap as I like." [Sidenote: THE GARDEN MYSTERY] "Much you'd use, miss, if you had your own way," I answered laughing. And then I turned and begged Bess, pouting and looking rather irate, to show me where there was this wonderful chattering. "It is a secret," cried Bess, "I am sure--a real secret." Then, without another word, we turned in through the wooden door at the back of the great yew hedge. As we entered I heard such a twittering and indignant chirping, that I was thoroughly puzzled to guess the cause. The children and I peered through the branches. "There must be a cat somewhere," I said. I have read that birds will chatter round a sick cat or dying fox, but I could discover no beast about. At our approach, two brilliant greenfinches alone took flight with a beautiful flash of apple-green wings, and vanished into the recesses of the great walnut tree. Still the harsh discordant cries continued. Suddenly I saw a nest. "A nest!" I cried, "and the noise comes from there. What can it be?" I tried to touch it, but the nest of moss and twigs was beyond my reach. "We must get the steps and then we shall know what makes the noise," I said. "But only Mouse amongst the dogs may see; Tramp and Tartar must be shut up in the shed, for if the birds fluttered down or could not fly, they would kill them, before we could save them." We shut up the terriers and fetched the steps. "I wish," I said, "that one of the boys"--as Burbidge calls them--"were here to hold them." For the ground at the back of the hedge was uneven, and it was difficult to get the steps reared firmly up. "I'll hold them, dear," said Hals, politely. And added with pride, "You know I'm very good at doing any man's job." But as they were heavy and rather clumsy, being an old-fashioned pair, I declined this and begged Hals to get out of the way, for fear of an accident happening to him. Then I mounted. I reached the summit of the ladder and looked down into the nest. As I did so I was conscious, at the "back of my head," as Nana says, that the children were watching me intently. "What is it?" they cried breathlessly. I saw below me a greenfinch's nest made out of green moss and twigs and lined with cow's hair, and in it, filling almost the entire space, was a gigantic grey-barred bird with an enormous mouth, which he opened at me in great wrath. Nothing daunted, I stretched out my hand to seize him, and obtained my prize; but in the effort, of doing so, I overbalanced myself, the steps clattered down with a crash, and I fell, bird in hand, to the ground. In my endeavour to save the bird from harm, I came in contact with a projecting piece of lime rock. I felt a sharp pain in my right knee, and then a giddy, confused sensation possessed me, and a hundred lights, red, blue, and white, danced before my eyes. The bird escaped from my hand and fluttered into the hedge with a guttural cry. Hals and Bess approached me in terror. "Mum, Mum, you're not dead?" asked Bess. I saw the little face twitching above me, and as she spoke, hot tears ran down her cheeks. "No, no," I whispered dreamily; and then all the trees and the hedge seemed to mingle in a senseless dance, and everything bobbed up and down before me. But I did not entirely lose consciousness, for I heard the children whisper together. At last Bess took Hals' hand and came quite close to where I was lying. "They do not always die," Hals said soothingly. "No, not mothers," Bess answered, with a gulp. But my poor little maid looked white with fear--she was trembling, and added, "But mothers _can_ die." I tried to say something to reassure them, but all my words seemed to die on my lips, and as I lay there everything seemed to get further and further off, and to become indistinct and unreal. At last Hals seemed to remember what to do in the emergency. "Run, Bess, run, and get some one," I heard him say. [Sidenote: MOUSE'S ROUGH KIND TONGUE] As the two children started off to the house, Mouse gave a whimper, and I felt her rough, kind tongue against my face. Then a mist gathered round me and I remembered nothing more. In a little while, however, I heard voices. Kindly Auguste led the way, talking volubly. "Madame est morte," I heard him call out in theatrical tones. Then old Mrs. Langdale followed, wringing her hands; then Célestine, like a whirlwind; and Nana and Burbidge a second later hobbled up across the lawn. "Madame, vite," exclaimed Célestine, and then followed a string of proposed remedies in the most astonishingly quick French. As she spoke, she tried to raise me, but I could not move without acute pain; and Mouse, watching my face, growled angrily. At this, Burbidge forced himself to the front. "Have done with your gibberish," he cried, in a surly tone. "For an English blow an English remedy. Yer might have broken my steps, marm," he said to me, with a catch in his throat. Burbidge is full of kindness; "but at times his tongue is as rough as pig bristles," as his old wife, Hester says, and just then he was thoroughly angry with me for having hurt myself chasing "mere wild birds, like a village loseller." Then he called to his boys, and somehow, with their aid, I got back to the house. The children were both in tears. "She has broken her leg," cried Bess. "Mothers can, I know it, besides beggars and princes." But Hals would not allow this, and said, with dogged steadfastness, "Mothers don't break like dolls, I know that." For this remark Burbidge commended him. "Stick to it, young squire," he said; and then he bade Roderick run for the doctor, like greased lightning. After a minute or two, Nana begged all to go out, and took possession of the injured knee, and began to bathe it with a decoction of arnica and boiled lily-root, which last is an excellent remedy, still used in Shropshire, for cuts or bruises. Gradually the pain diminished, and as I lay, feeling much shaken and a little foolish, the doctor made his appearance. He begged me to remain on the sofa, to rest, and discontinue all exercise for the present; and before going wrote out the prescription for another lotion. When he had left, I weakly suggested I would use both, and hoped for the best. But this "trimming" course did not pacify Nana, who declared "he might say what he liked, but Dr. Browne had no call to change her lotion." After luncheon I felt better, and was carried out on a sofa to the lawn on the east side of the house, some favourite books were placed near me, and the letters I had received that morning. Burbidge was by that time very penitent and full of compunction, now that he was no longer terrified, and was sure that my leg was not broken. He brought me a sprig of lavender, "to have summat nice to sniff," and assured me "that them birds of mine in the aviary should be looked after proper;" and added, by way of gloomy consolation, "I wouldn't let 'em nohow suffer, not even if you'd broken both legs." When Burbidge had left me, I took up my letters sadly, and felt grieved that I must forego that week the pleasure of calling on friends and of visiting their lovely gardens, decked in the full glory of summer; and that I could not see, as I had intended to do, the stately garden of Cundover, the glowing borders of Burwarton, or the splendour of the Crimson Rambler at Benthall. All these beautiful things, as far as I was concerned, must remain unseen, and flower their sweetness away in the desert air. Not even my own garden might I visit, for my orders were to lie down and not to put foot to the ground for some days; so I said sadly to myself I must only _think_ of gardens. I remained therefore quite quiet, for the children had both gone off to tea at the Red House, and Mouse, and I were left alone, to enjoy each other's society. I lay back amongst the cushions, and thought of all the beautiful gardens that I had ever seen. [Sidenote: THE GARDEN OF MY CHILDHOOD] My mind flew back to the old Hampshire garden, where I had played as a child, with its glowing anemones in May, its auriculas, and its golden patches of alyssum, which we called as children, "golden tuft." Its great hedges of lavender, its masses of fruit trees, and its big beds of hautbois strawberries all returned to me. How well I remembered the quinces, medlars, and mulberries, and a hundred other delights. I recollected also, the groves of filberts and great coverts of gooseberries and raspberries, where the old gardener used to allow us to "forage," as he termed it, for ten minutes at a time, and never more, by his great silver watch, presented to him years ago "by the earl," in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Then how beautiful the walls were in summer and autumn, laden with apricots, peaches, delicious black figs, and later on, with beautiful pears of brilliant colours and gigantic proportions. How carefully the fruit trees were trained--some in toasting-forks and others to make perfect fans. And then what beautiful long alleys of close-shorn turf there were, and what plantations of beautiful standard roses he grew for my mother. [Sidenote: SHIPTON GARDEN] Then my mind flew back to the beautiful pleasaunces of Highclere, just seven miles away. How magnificent were the great cedars round the house, the masses of gorgeous rhododendrons, and the wonderful beds of azaleas. Then, amidst shady groves with sparkling patches of sunlight, I remembered, also, beautiful examples of the great tree or Moutan peony--the highest and biggest bushes that I have ever seen; and across the park, delicious Milford, with its islands of blossom, its swans, and its sunlit lake. Gardens are great pleasures. The state gardens of the world remain with us as beautiful and wonderful pictures of the tastes and manners of past centuries. They are the living splendours of past ages. I recalled such examples as Levens, Hatfield, Longleat, and Littlecote. Then I turned in thought to homelier, what Bess calls, "more your own kind of places;" and I thought of the lovely little old manor-house gardens that I had seen. There is one not far from Wenlock, by name Shipton. A little terraced garden, with old stone vases of Elizabethan time. The present house dates mostly from Mary Tudor's reign, and belonged later to Sir Christopher Hatton, the Maiden Queen's dancing Chancellor, who won all hearts by his grace and amiability, it is said. On each side of the little narrow garden run high walls, festooned with roses--and such old-fashioned roses! Old kinds that I have never seen elsewhere--such as Waller might have thought of when he penned his exquisite verses to Saccharissa--dainty, small, and deliciously fragrant. Then, just outside the garden are big bushes of brilliant berberries, that turn in autumn, red, like a regiment of English soldiers in peace-time, and that were so highly esteemed for the making of "conserves," in the Middle Ages. How pretty such old-fashioned gardens are--very tiny, very dainty, and meant to be very formal and trim. They seem little worlds all of their own; little centres of human care and affection, and outside all appears a wilderness in comparison. Then, as I lay idly back, looking into the blue mist and enjoying the far green of the poplars, my mind turned to all the lovely gardens that I had read about. I thought of "that railit garden," that James I. of Scotland--poet, musician, and artist--loved; and where he fell in love with the Lady Jane, the fair daughter of the Earl of Somerset. There, he tells us, he passed his deadly life--"full of peyne and penance." From a grim tower he first saw his lady-love. He tells us in the "King's Quhair," how he saw her walking in a fair garden, and how, in seeing her, "it sent the blude of all my body to my hert;" and how, for ever afterwards, "his heart became her thrall," although "there was no token of menace in her face." There, amidst "a garden fair," by towered walls, knit round with hawthorn hedges, where thick boughs beshaded long alleys, and where the sweet green juniper gave out its aromatic fragrance, he, poor poet-king, sang of love, listening all the while to the "little sweet nightingale that sat on small green twists, and that sang 'now soft, now lowd,' till all the garden and the walls rung 'right of the song.'" Then I thought of that still garden at St. Mary's chapel, at Westminster, where the great father of English poetry wrote his treatise on the "Astrolabe" for his little son Lewis. I imagined him with his wise and tender face, and far-off, deep-set grey eyes looking out on the world kindly, serious, gentle. I liked to remember the great man's peaceful deathbed, and thought of his last sweet verses-- "Flie fro the prese, and dwell with sothfastnesse; Suffise unto thy Goode, though it be small, For horde hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse." It is an old, old story, and yet always a new one; but in Chaucer's time, failure met with a sharp ending. I thought also of that fair garden near the Temple, which our greatest poet has touched with the divine intuition of genius, and made bloom with roses that no frost can kill, or smoke can soil. Where Plantagenet plucked the white rose of York, and Somerset the red one of Lancaster. Then I thought of unfortunate Richard's queen in the garden at Langley, and of the old faithful, rugged gardener and of his bitter cry of pity. "Here did she drop a tear. Here in this place I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace." [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ CHAPTER HOUSE AT WENLOCK.] [Sidenote: BACON'S GARDEN] Then I thought of Lord Bacon's beautiful garden of "prince-like" proportions. According to him, the ideal garden did not measure less than thirty acres, and was to be divided into three parts--a garden proper, a greene, a heath, or desert. In the garden there was to be a succession of flowers. Germander, sweet briars, and gilly flowers, were some of those named, and the garden was always to be gay. He advocated many kinds of fruit, "cherries, rasps, apples, pears, plummes, grapes, and also peaches." In the heath or desert, were to be planted thickets of honeysuckle, and garlands of wild vine; while mole-hills were to be skilfully covered with wild thyme, with pinks, and in opening glades, sheets of violets, cowslips, daisies, and beare-foot, were each to have their place. Then long alleys were to be planted with burnet, wild thyme, and water-mint, which, when crushed, would, he tells us, "give out rich perfume." "Great Princes may add statues and such things for state and magnificence," wrote Bacon; "but beyond these things is the true pleasure of a garden." And there the great Chancellor was right, for we all know little plots and tiny greenhouses, worked and tended by loving hands, where the owner, and toiler, gets more pleasure out of a very small enclosure or a single frame, than a ducal proprietor out of many acres of horticultural magnificence. God is very just in pleasure, if not in wealth. It was in his own beautiful garden at Gorhambury, that the great philosopher and master-mind wrote much that was beautiful. His was a strange character. He soared to heaven by his intellect, and fell to hell by his baseness. Ben Johnson wrote, "In his adversity I ever prayed that God would give him strength, for greatness he could not want." Bacon, be it said in sorrow, was one of the last of the bench who descended to torturing his victims. He wrote of the unfortunate Peacham, when he refused to answer his questions, "that he had a dumb devil." Yet this man loved at other moments pure pleasures. His love of a garden was real, and deep, and no man understood more fully the heights and depths of the Christian Faith, or the higher flights of redeemed souls. "Prosperity," he wrote, "is the blessing of the Old Testament; Adversity, the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and the clearer evidence of God's favour." "Prosperity," he declared, "was not without many fears and distastes, and Adversity not without comforts and hopes. Prosperity doth best discover vice, but Adversity doth best discover virtue." Nobody has ever approached Bacon for his beauty of expression. Shelley wrote of his style, "His language has a sweet, majestic rhythm, which satisfies the sense no less than the almost superhuman wisdom of his philosophy satisfies the intellect." Such natures as Lord Verulam's are difficult for commonplace mortals to understand, for the head is of a god, and the feet, those of a beast. The young or inexperienced might call such men humbugs, or hypocrites; but, perhaps, the real truth is, that such men possess dual natures. In them is a spirit that knows the light, and seeks it, as the Chancellor swore he would seek the light; but to whom, also, the ways of darkness are not repellent, and who cannot resist the favour of man, and the false glamour of courts. Then I thought of the fair gardens of history. I imagined the splendours of Nonsuch, laid out by bluff Harry, of which men said, "that the palace was encumbered with parks full of deer, and surrounded with delicious gardens and groves, ornamented with trellis works and cabinets of verdure, so that it seemed a place pitched upon by Pleasure herself, to dwell in along with Youth." It was also good to think of John Evelyn in his plantings, and during his long rides. I thought of him journeying in the south of France, along the Mediterranean coast, enjoying the sight there of the vineyards and olives. In fancy I beheld him scenting the orange and citron groves, and stopping to gaze "at the myrtle, pomegranates, and the like sweet plantations," as he passed villa after villa, built, as he said, of glittering free-stone, which, in that clear atmosphere, made him think "of snow dropped from the clouds, amongst the verdure of the ilexes and perennial greens." [Sidenote: ELIZABETH OF YORK'S BOWER] Besides these fair gardens, I thought in the dawn of gardening, of Elizabeth of York's bower, "in the little park of Wyndsor," and I liked to dream of that arbour in Baynarde's Castle in London put up for her, by order of the king. I should have liked also to have walked with Sir Thomas More in that fair garden (probably his) from which he imagined the one in his "Utopia," where "we went and sat down on a green bank and entertained one another in discourse." Then I should have liked to have crept into the great gardens at Hampton Court laid out by the great cardinal, where "there was a flower garden to supply the queen's bower with roses, and where John Chapman, the most famous gardener of his time, grew his herbs for the king's table." I should have liked to have had the invisible cap, and to have stepped past the guard and entered the Privy garden, and have read the mottoes on the sundials, and to have slyly scented the roses, and pinched the rosemary, juniper, and lavender. Had I possessed the magic cap, I should not have forgotten to wander into the Bird garden and to have seen "the beestes," holding in stone their vanes; and I should have liked also dearly to have seen all the strange animals, amongst which there were harts, badgers, hounds, dragons, antelopes, and one stately lion. Could I have walked there, perhaps I might have caught a glance of that "sweetest lady from Spain" whom Shakespeare honoured most of all women; or perhaps in the joyous hey-day of her youth have met Anne of the slender neck, for whom Fate had reserved so terrible a fate, although for a time all seemed to go so smilingly with her. Then I should have liked to have been a favourite guest at Moor Park, in the days when the stately Countess of Bedford lived there, and to have heard the wits talk, and perhaps have followed the countess and Doctor Donne up the trim gravel walks, and have admired the standard laurels, and rejoiced in the stately fountains in a garden that, in the words of the great Minister of the Hague, "was too pleasant ever to forget." I should have liked also to have walked into Sir William Temple's own garden at Sheen, had a chat with him about his melons, of which he was so proud, or have paced with him the trim alleys of his own Moor Park in Surrey. Later, I should have liked to have seen his stiff beds, reflections of the _parterres_ of Holland, and have heard from his own lips the account of the Triple Alliance. And beyond this garden of men's hands, I should like to have seen the glorious extent of firs and heather that enclosed his garden, and to have heard the murmur of the distant rivulet, and to have felt the charm of the distant view that he gazed upon. Perhaps even, if fortune had been kind, I might have seen Lady Gifford in all the splendour of silk or satin, or heard some brilliant witticism from the lips of young Jonathan, or even have caught a fleeting glimpse of lovely Stella. Now all these pretty, all these interesting shades of the past are gone. Yet Sir William's sundial still stands in his favourite garden, and below it lies buried his heart, placed there by his own desire, whilst the rest of his remains lie in Westminster Abbey, beside those of his charming wife, Dorothy Osborne. [Sidenote: THE GARDENS OF THE EAST] No sound anywhere, on this lovely July day, greeted me, but the trilling jubilation of a thrush in a lilac, so I could dream on at will about gardens and their delights. After a while my mind wandered to the gardens of the ancients. I thought of those deep groves where Epicurus walked and talked, of the rose-laden bowers where Semiramis feasted and reposed, of the moonlit gardens where Solomon sung his Oriental rhapsodies, where fountains played day and night, and in which hundreds of trees flowered and fruited. Where were the gardens of "the Hesperides?" I asked myself. That spot of wonderful delight which none ever wished to leave, where flowers blossomed all the year, and where fair nymphs danced and sang through all the seasons. Then where was the garden of Alcinous, where the trees formed a dark and impenetrable shade, where fountains refreshed the weary and where fruit followed fruits in endless succession? With us in England, a garden means a place of joyous sunlight, a place where flowers glitter in the sunshine, and where throughout the day feathered songsters sing in joyous chorus. In the Oriental imagination, a garden means cool alleys, flowing water, marble basins; a place to wander in beneath the stars, and to hear the nightingale sing his chant of melody and grief. Even in the matter of gardens, the aspirations of the West must always be different from those of the East. Then my mind turned to the gardens of fancy. "Where sprang the violet and the periwinkle rich of hue"--where "all the ground was poudred as if it had been peynt, and where every flower cast up a good savour." Where amongst the trees "birdis sang with voices like unto the choir of angels, where sported also little conyes, the dreadful roo, the buck, the hert, and hynde, and squirrels, and bestes small of gentil kynde." Where sweet musicians played, and where, as Chaucer wrote, with the _naiveté_ of the early poets, that God who is Maker and Lord of all good things, he guessed, never heard sweeter music, "where soft winds blew, making sweet murmurs in the green trees, whilst scents of every holsom spice, and grass were wafted in the breeze." Then in the peace of that exquisite summer day, I saw as in a dream that blest region which Sir Philip Sidney has painted and called Arcadia, "where the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, where nightingales sung their wrong-caused sorrow;" where the hills rose, their proud heights garnished with stately trees, beneath which silver streams murmured softly amidst meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers. Where pretty lambs with bleating outcry craved their dam's comfort, and where a shepherd-boy piped as though he never could grow old, whilst a shepherdess sang and knitted all the while, so that it seemed "that the voice comforted her hands to work, and the hands kept time to the voice music." In that sweet and happy country, where light and sun and blue sky were constant joys, where the houses were all scattered, "but not from mutual succour," where the joys of "accompanable solitariness were to be found combined with the pleasures of civil wildness," I allowed my fancy to linger. Then as butterflies flitted past in all the pomp of summer splendour in my Abbey garden, I thought for a moment of Mistress Tuggy's bowers of passion-flower at Westminster, of which Gerard wrote, and of which he told us "there was always good plenty." I thought also of that gay procession to the Parson of Tittershall, where merry maids went, bearing with them garlands of red roses, and of that wreath laid through many centuries, in beautiful Tong Church. I liked to imagine Theobalds, where it was said a man might wander two miles and yet never come to the end of the great gardens; or to think of that great pleasaunce of Frederick, Duke of Würzburg, where it was said that it was easy for a stranger to lose his way, so vast was the space of the enclosure. [Sidenote: ELIZABETHAN GARDENS] Then I should have liked to have known the great gardens of Kenilworth, where proud Dudley entertained the Maiden Queen. There, according to Master Humphrey Martin, every fruit tree had its place. In the centre of the pleasaunce stood, he wrote, an aviary and a fountain of white marble, where tench, bream, and carp, eel and perch "all did play pleasantly," and "beside which delicious fruits, cherries, strawberries, might be eaten from the stalk." In the Elizabethan garden men were not content with gay blossoms alone; sweet odours were necessary to complete their standard of delight. Bacon wrote, because the breath of flowers is "farr sweeter in the air, where it comes, and goes, like the warbling of music, then in the hand, so there is nothing more fit for delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that doe best perfume the aire." He recommended amongst other sweet scents, two specially, that of violets, and the perfume of dying strawberry leaves, "an excellent cordial in autumn." He also mentioned the perfume of sweet-briar, and recommended that wallflowers should be planted under a parlour or lower chamber window. Andrew Borde, writing in the same century, declared that it was deemed necessary for the country house of his time to be surrounded by orchards well-filled with sundry fruits and commodious, and to have a fair garden "repleat with herbs aromatic and redolent of savours." Markham also talked of the nosegay garden, which was to be planted with violets, and gilly-flowers, marigolds, lilies, daffodils, hyacinths, "tulipas," narcissus, and the like. There were to be knots, or _parterres_ of delightful interlacing patterns, and amongst the ribbon borders such sweet plants and flowers as thyme, pinks, gilly-flowers, and thrift, all neatly bordered and edged, with turrets and arbours to repose in. Thomas Hill, writing in 1568, also suggested that there should be _parterres_ filled with hyssop, thyme, and lavender, for the pleasure of the perfume. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries folks sought their flowers in their gardens, which it can well be imagined was a much healthier form of enjoyment than the modern one of masses of flowers in stuffy rooms and of having tables laden with strong-smelling blossoms, during hot and crowded banquets. The delight in the garden was essentially a sixteenth and seventeenth century pride. Lawson exclaimed, "What can your eye desire to see, your ear to hear, your mouth to taste, or your nose to smell, that is not to be had in a garden, with abundance of beauty?" Lawson also loved the birds, as did the Scotch poet king, and Chaucer, and, in the early nineteenth century, Shelley and Keats. He wrote lovingly of a brood of nightingales that turned his orchard into a paradise. "The voice of the cock bird," he declared, "did bear him company, both day and night." Then I should have liked to have visited Gerard in his physic garden in Holborn, overlooking the Fleet, and how delightful it would have been to have had a chat with the old man, or to have brought him some new plant or flower. Or perhaps, if fortune had smiled upon me, I might another day have popped in and got a talk with John Tradescant, whose father and grandfather were both gardeners to Queen Bess, and who himself was gardener in his time, to ill-fated Charles I. These Tradescants travelled all over the world in search of plants for the royal gardens, and one of them even went to Virginia in order to bring back new specimens. [Sidenote: WHERE ARE THE GARDENS OF THE PAST?] Where are the gardens of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? A few are the delight and joy of our own time, but most of them have perished, and are gone like the roses that Sir Philip Sidney picked for Stella, or the anemones that John Evelyn loved. The press of human feet has displaced nearly all the fair floral sites in London, and the hare and the partridges rove over many of those famed in Tudor and Stuart days in the country. Of Nonsuch, Evelyn wrote, "they cut down the fair elms and defaced the stateliest seat that his Majesty possessed." Alone, near High Ercall, at Eyton, where George Herbert's mother was born and bred, stands the old gazebo or pleasure-house that belonged to the ancient hall of the Newports. This still remains in red brick, a lovely sixteenth-century building. The old house has perished, and the old gardens have gone back into plough, or meadow-land. Alone the old pleasure-house stands and a gigantic ilex, which is said to have been planted at the same time. Did "holy Mr. Herbert" ever pace that old pleasure-house, I have often asked myself, as a little lad? It is a pleasant thought. All loved him. Lord Pembroke, his kinsman, told the king, James I., that he loved him more for his learning and virtues than even for his name and his family, and all men sought his friendship. Amongst these the learned Bishop of Winchester and Francis Lord Bacon. Was it of such a man that the great essayist wrote, "A man having such a friend hath two lives in his desires"? If so, it was of the immortal side of life he spoke, for all George's aspirations were for the treasure where "neither moth nor rust can corrupt, and where no thief can break through or steal." Then I let my fancy linger for a moment in the old bowling-green at Whitehall, all gone too; I thought of the prisoner, Sir Richard Fanshawe, in the chamber above: and of his devoted wife, standing morning after morning, whilst the rain fell in torrents, talking and listening with the desperation of love. [Sidenote: THE MASQUE OF FLOWERS] The shadows deepened, the sunlight faded, and the glory of red melted away into tender lavender and green. After a while I think I got drowsy, for in my imagination I saw a garden, gorgeous and resplendent. Loud music resounded within its precincts, and a pleasaunce extended before me of strange and fantastic beauty. In the centre I noted a beautiful fountain, reared on four columns of silver, with four golden masked faces, from whose lips clear water issued in sparkling streams. There were also curious beasts of gold and silver, in the shape of lions and unicorns. The magic garden was hedged in with a sombre hedge of cypress. On the whole scene fell the brilliant glare of flaming torches. Gorgeous _parterres_ of tulips, all a blaze of blossom, flashed with a hundred colours, whilst to me, borne on little eddying breezes, came wafted back the delicious sweetness of honeysuckle and eglantine. Then, as I looked, to the sound of lutes and to the tinkle of old stringed instruments, I saw nymphs clad in rich apparel dance a stately measure. My book slipped off my knees, and fell with a flump upon the grass. A minute later I rubbed my eyes and laughed, and then remembered that I had not been to fairyland after all, as Bess would have said, but that I had fallen asleep, and had been dreaming about the Masque of Flowers, a great _fête_ that was given in honour of the marriage of the Earl of Somerset and the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk, by the gentlemen of Grays Inn, in the long past year of 1613. I laughed, for I really believed, as the children say, it was all true, and Mouse, suspicious probably by my puzzled look, gave a long deep growl. My faithful friend had never left my side. Since my accident she had remained with me, troubled, and annoyed and sullen to everybody else. Mouse had a bad opinion of the doctor (most dogs have). She did not like his carriage, and thought badly of his coachman. Just then the world for her was full of evil characters, and they taxed narrowly her powers of observation. As I leant over the sofa to pick up my book, the oak door of the chapel hall was flung violently open, and the two children, Bess and little Hals, danced in together. "Oh, mamsie!" they cried, for Hals had caught up Bess's manner of addressing me. "Such fun! such fun! We did all kinds of things. We played games in the garden--Kiss in the Ring, Stag a Roarning, Bell Horses, Draw Buckets, and Shrewsbury Blind Man's Buff, Wallflowers, Garden Jumps, and heaps of others. Aunty Constance called them 'Shropshire games.'" "Were they good games?" I asked. The children were too excited to speak, but nodded their heads furiously, whilst their eyes shone with excitement. "Can you repeat to me any of the rhymes?" I asked. "Hals can," answered Bess; "I can't long remember poetry. Things fly into my head, but they soon fly out again." I turned to Hals, and begged him to tell me those that he could remember. [Illustration: _Photo by Frith._ OLD WENLOCK TOWN.] "Well," he replied, "I'll try. Anyway it was great fun. Aunty Constance taught us a lot, but most of the children came from her class, and, besides, they knew a lot. Shropshire children, I think, even Fräulein would call 'very learned.'" "They were all funny," cried Bess; "and we danced on the grass, and Aunty Constance gave us sugar-plums, and red lolly-pops between the games, and we drank lemonade and orangeade." "Yes," said Hals, grandly; "I don't think even the king, or my father could have amused themselves better. They know how to be happy in Shropshire." Then Bess interrupted Hals and called out sharply, "Amuse mama." [Sidenote: OLD SHROPSHIRE GAMES] "Do," I said; "and begin by telling me all about the games, and repeat to me all the rhymes that you can remember." "Yes, we must," said Bess, moved to pity, "for poor mama, she didn't even go to Aunty Constance's garden, although she was asked, or see Aunty Constance's new flower with a long name that I am sure I can only misremember." There was a pause. Then Hals stood on the gravel path some five yards away, and said modestly, "I'll do my best, but I am afraid all the games won't come back to me. The first time you play at games, they are almost as hard as sums." "Oh no," interrupted Bess, contemptuously. "Games can never be as bad as sums, for you can kick about and swing your feet in games. But in sums it's always 'keep quiet;' and then," added Bess sadly, with a note of pathos in her voice, "sums will always keep on changing, unless they are done by a governess." Then a hush fell upon us all, for Hals said he must try and think of the games pat, and we were silent. I saw Hals' lips move, and a pretty vision rose before me of a little figure clad in green velvet, with fair flaxen curls clustering round his brow and resting on his lace collar. After a few minutes the little boy stepped a little nearer, and in a treble key, began to explain the character of the old games and to recite some of the old verses that once delighted lad and lass of the far West country. "First we played Kiss in the Ring. We ran about," he explained, "and the boys dropped handkerchiefs on the shoulders of the girls they liked, and they said in turn-- "'I wrote a letter to my love And on the way I lost it; Some one has picked it up, Not you, not you, not you.' That they said," said Hals, "when the boys didn't like a girl. I didn't play," he remarked grandly, "because I didn't like being kissed by strange girls; so I played with the others at Cat and Mouse, which is better, for the kissing is understood." "And after that?" I asked. "Oh, after that we played Bingo." "Bobby Bingo," corrected Bess, severely. "You should call things by their proper name, Hals." "It was a game about a dog, and we came up, and all said together," continued Hals unmoved-- "'A farmer's dog lay on the floor, And Bingo was his name O. B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, And Bingo was his name O.' I cannot exactly say how that was played," said Hals, puzzled, "but we danced and we sang, and one girl stood straight up in the middle, as if she had a punishment lesson to say. And when I'm grown up, I will get my father to buy me a dog, and I will call him Bingo." "Now I want to talk," cried Bess, impatiently, "because I, too, know some of the games. We've often played at them, Nana and I and the maids, on Saturday afternoon when it was wet. There was Bell-horses. Nobody is so silly, mamsie, unless it's members of parliament or governesses, as not to know 'Bell-horses.'" Then my little maid slipped off the wooden bench on which she had been swinging her feet, and went and stood by little Harry. "Listen," she cried, and blurted forth at double quick pace-- [Sidenote: BELL-HORSES AND OTHER DELIGHTS] "'Bell-horses, bell-horses, what time of day? One o'clock, two o'clock, three and away. Bell-horses, bell-horses what time of day? Two o'clock, three o'clock, four and away.'" Then we stood up, and cried out-- "'Five o'clock, six o'clock, no time to stay.'" At this point Hals came and sat quietly by me on the edge of my sofa, and Bess went on. "Besides that we had Green Gravel, Green Gravel, and even Mrs. Burbidge says that is not a wicked game to play," cried Bess; and repeated the old lines with a funny little tilt of her head-- "'Green gravel, green gravel, the grass is so green, She is the fairest young lady as ever was seen. I'll wash her in milk, And I'll clothe her in silk, And I'll write down her name With a gold pen and ink.'" Then came what Bess called "them that laughed," who said-- "'O Sally, O Sally, your true love is dead, He sent you a letter to turn round your head.'" "I like that," remarked Bess. "The words are pretty. 'Green gravel, green gravel,' but I shouldn't like to be washed in milk, soap and water are bad enough, but I should like letters to be written with a pen of gold. They sound as if they ought to be letters all about holidays or Christmas presents; leastways, they never ought to be rude or disagreeable, or have anything to do with lessons.'" "Yes," agreed Harry, "written only for fun, and because everybody may do as they like." Then we discussed Wallflowers. And as the children stood talking, for Hals had run to Bess's side, old Nana came out of the Chapel Hall and joined our group. "It is time, mam, for them to be in bed," said Nana, sourly; "and I'm sure it will be a mercy if both childer are not ill to-morrow. By their own accounts they've eaten as many lolly-pops as they had a mind to. I did think as Mrs. Legarde had more sense than that. But them as feasts children, should physic 'em." "Wallflowers, wallflowers," interrupted Bess, rudely. "Come and amuse mama, poor mamsie hasn't had tea out, or done anything to please herself." So old Nana--whose bark, all the household acknowledges, is far worse than her bite--came and began to recite the old rhymes of her youth, and of the old days before that. "I am just ashamed of the old nonsense," she said, blushing like a girl, "but since it will amuse your mama," and she turned to Bess, "I'll try my best." And Nana, in a funny old husky voice, with the Shropshire accent growing stronger and stronger at every line repeated-- "'Wallflowers, wallflowers, wallflowers up so high, Us shall all be maidens, and so us will die. Excepting Alice Gittens--she is the youngest flower, She can hop, and she can skip, and she can play the hour, Three and four, and four and five, Turn your back to the wall side.'" And thereupon old Nana, animated by old recollections, turned her back upon me and stood facing the old bowling-green. [Sidenote: QUEEN BESS'S GAME] "Well done!" cried both children simultaneously. And then Bess called for "Nuts in May." "You know, what we played last Christmas, when we could'nt go out," she explained, "because the snow was so deep." For a moment Nana looked puzzled. "You ought to recollect that," cried Bess, "because it was you that learnt us it before." Nana thought for a minute, and then repeated the old Shropshire version of the ancient game, which, tradition says, was written by Queen Bess one Christmas time for Lord Burleigh's children. But Nana first of all explained to us the action of the game. "You must know, mam," she said, "that there are two parties--one of lads and the other of lasses." "The first come up and call (the lads)-- "'Here we come gathering nuts in May, Nuts in May, nuts in May, Here we come gathering nuts in May On a cold and frosty morning.' "Then the second lot," as Nana called the lasses, "answer back, and shout-- "'Who have ye come to gather away?' And the first lot (the lads) reply-- "'We have come to gather sweet Maude away.' 'And who will you send to fetch her away?' 'We'll send Corney Rodgers to fetch her away.' "Then the two parties pull," she added, "and in the end a lass has to leave, and to go over to the lads' side." "Who was sweet Maude, and who was Corney Rodgers?" I asked of Nana. But she declared she didn't know for certain, "but most-like he was some bad bold man who lived in the hills, and took off any maid he had a mind to." "Go on, go on!" cried the children enthusiastically, and clapped Nana vociferously. "You know them all," exclaimed Bess, "although you like pretending; but nurses always do." At this Nana, for all her head of snow, fell a laughing. She forgot all about "bedtime," and stood before us with pink cheeks, whilst she exclaimed-- "They comes back! They comes back, the old plays." And therewith begins to repeat "Here comes Three Dukes a Riding." "Us used to play that--and a right pretty game it was," she explained,--"on the village green, when the leaves were budding, betwixt the hours of school." And she recited aloud in her dear, funny, old cracked voice-- "'Here comes three dukes a riding With a ransome, dansome, day.' "Then the lasses used to answer," she told us, "and cry out-- "'And what is your intent, sirs, intent, sirs? With a ransome, dansome, day.' "At this the lads used to shout-- "'My intent is to marry, to marry.' "And the maids would reply-- "'Will you marry one of my daughters, one of my daughters?' "Then the lads used to look highty-tighty, for all they had in their bones only the making of ploughmen, ditchers, and shepherds," Nana declared, "and they would say-- "'You be as stiff as pokers, as pokers.' And turn up their noses and strut back. "Then the maids would answer, mincing like-- "'We can bend like you, sirs, like you, sirs!' "Then the lads would scan the lasses up and down, and sing back, as if every one of 'em had been born a lord, or high sheriff of the county at least-- "'You're all too black and too blowsy, too blowsy For a dilly-dally officer.' "Then the maids would sing with a bit of spite-- "'We're good enough for you, sirs, good enough for you.' "Then a lad would leave his fellows, and say with a shrug of his shoulders, and crestfallen like-- "'If I must have one I will have this, So away with you my pretty miss.'" And then old Nana told us that the maids would laugh and the lads would jeer, for in turn each lad had to choose a lass, and sometimes the lass he had a mind to wouldn't go. [Sidenote: A RING OF ROSES] Then Nana, after a short pause, said, "Then there be another game as us used to play. Ring of Roses, some used to call it, and others Grandfather's Rheum. But I cannot remember but one verse-- "'A ring, a ring of roses, A pocket full of posies. One for Jack, and one for Jan And one for little Moses. A-tisha, a-tisha, a-tisha.' and the fun was who could sneeze loudest. I remember Mike Mallard and Mary Wilston was wonderful at it. 'Yer'll die in a sneeze,' folk used to tell them." "Nana can you think of no more, just one more." For Nana had beckoned to Bess to say good night and go. "Yes," I said, "just one more." So old Nana yielded to our united pleadings, asserted it must be only _one_, as it was high time for her lad and lass to be in bed, and ended by reciting aloud a strange old Shropshire rhyme-- "'Walking up the green grass, A dust, a frust, a dust. We want a pretty maid To walk along with us.' "The lads used to say that in a chorus," Nana explained. "Then the maids would answer-- "'Fiddle faddle--fiddle faddle.' "Then the boys would say-- "'We'll take a pretty maid, We'll catch her by the hand, She shall go to Derby, For Derby be her land. She shall have a duck, my dear, She shall have a lamb, Hers shall be a nice young man, A-fighting for her sake. "'Suppose this young man was to die, And leave the lass alone, Our bells would ring, and we should sing And clap our hands together.' "And the maids said-- "'Fiddle faddle--fiddle faddle.'" "I don't like it," said Bess, impulsively. "Why should they all be jolly because the poor gentleman died?" [Sidenote: "THERE'S THINGS AS GIRLS CAN'T UNDERSTAND"] But Hals did not take that view. "There's things," he said loftily, "as girls can't understand." At this Bess turned very red, and in the spirit of the modern woman declared, "What she couldn't understand, Hals couldn't neither." And in deep dudgeon she followed Nana into the house. As the little party passed out of the garden Hals called back to me, "We've forgotten Stag a Roarning. The best of all the games we've not told you about. One that I played last year with my papa at a school feast." The twilight turned into night. The servants came out, and I was helped back to the Chapel Hall. After all it had not been a dull afternoon. One can go many miles in one's room, if one knows how to ride on the wings of fancy, and many is the garden that I had visited that day, borne along on the pinions of imagination, for were not the gardens of all time open to me? No dragons or mailed warriors guarded the entrance gates, not even a modern policeman. An hour after dinner I found myself in bed. The window of my chamber was wide open, an old lancet window of Norman days, one out of which Roger de Montgomery may have gazed, and, later, many of the Henry's of England in succession. All was very still outside. In the little bit of dark sapphire-blue sky that met my eye as I lay in bed, I saw a mist of silver stars, and the scent of the creepers entered with entrancing sweetness. I was no longer in pain, but not sleepy, so I stretched out my hand and took hold of a book. My hand closed upon a volume of Milton, well worn, and much used; for John Milton has a solemn, sacred power, and touches you with the solemnity of some grand chords heard upon a cathedral organ, and the melody of his verse is often welcome in this holy place. But it was not to his "Paradise Lost" or "Regained" that I turned, nor to his exquisite sonnets. I was in a lighter mood; I turned to the most beautiful masque that ever was written; whilst I thought of the most beautiful of all ruins, Ludlow Castle, the early home of Sir Philip Sidney, England's ideal knight, and the mirror of her chivalry. The plot of the masque arose from a simple little mishap which happened in the life of the actors. John Milton was then tutor to the Earl of Bridgewater's sons, Lord Brackley and Thomas Egerton. On their way to Ludlow, the young party went through Haywood Forest in Herefordshire. Travelling with her brothers was the Lady Alice Egerton. Somehow, in the depth of the wilderness, the young lady was lost for a short time. Out of this slender plot Milton constructed his masque of "Comus." His friend, Henry Lawes, set his songs to music, and the fair Alice and her two brothers all appeared in the play on Michaelmas night and acted at Ludlow Castle before their parents and assembled guests. As I lay in bed the grace and the charm of the masque returned to me. I thought in the tranquillity of the summer evening I heard the lady calling-- "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that lives unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave Tell me where? Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere, So mayest thou be translated to the skies And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies." [Sidenote: THE MASQUE OF "COMUS"] How prettily the lines must have sounded, not through wood and glade, but through the stately presence chamber of Ludlow Castle to the graceful tinkling music Lawes had written for them. The earl and countess sat, I have read, in all the state of the Marches Court in the front row, and were surrounded by neighbours and dependents. There is the grace of great things in "Comus," and a grace and finished purity of soul that have seldom belonged to youth. The elder brother's speech is worthy of Shakespeare-- "He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit in the centre and enjoy bright day. But he, that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon." What happened to fair Alice, I have often asked myself, in the time of trouble that was soon to come? I have never been able to find out much, save that she married Lord Carberry, and lived with him at his seat of Golden Grove. In the unbroken calm, the old world seemed very near me. Ghosts, once dear to Ludlow, seemed to breathe around me. The little princes, with their fair curls, smiled upon me from the threshold of life; Prince Arthur, Sir Philip Sidney, Alice and her brothers, and Milton in the dawn of his poet's career; ill-fated Charles; and brilliant, but broken-hearted, Butler. I thought of all of them, whilst the wind stirred faintly the summer leaves. At last I sank into repose. Sweet dreams are those suggested by old-world ghosts, and when the spirit is lulled by the graces of another age. I lay half-dreaming, half-awake, and thought of John Milton, young and beautiful, with the fire of inspiration in his deep grey-blue eyes. A man of wonderful learning and grace. A master swordsman, inasmuch as it was true of him "that he was not afraid of resenting an affront from any man." Of deep erudition, for Hebrew, Chaldee, and Syriac were all known to him, besides being well versed in Italian, French, and Spanish. He could repeat aloud, I have heard, many portions of Homer. I thought of him later giving himself up to the delights of music, of which he was a master, as was his father; playing, it is said, both on the organ and on other instruments. He was also a composer, like his friend Henry Lawes, though none of his compositions have reached us. Certainly, as Bishop Newton wrote of him, "he was a man of great parts, for his was a quick apprehension, a sublime imagination, a strong memory, a piercing judgment, and a wit always ready." The next day I sat out after breakfast. It was delicious weather. Soft rain had fallen during the night towards dawn, and refreshed the earth. I had begun to answer letters on a little bed-table, when my solitude was interrupted by the appearance of Auguste. He approached my couch with a profound bow. Under his arm was a book bound in vellum, and bearing on the side an inscription in manuscript. He advanced, placed both heels together, and then bowed profoundly. "Madame se porte mieux?" he inquired. I replied in the affirmative, and thanked him for his kind enquiries. [Sidenote: L'OEUVRE DE GRAND-PAPA] There was a pause; then Auguste bowed again, and after a long string of courteous words, in which our cook trusted that "le bon Dieu ferait vite son métier," and in which he assured me that he prayed that I should be soon restored to health, he put beside me "le cahier blanc" that he had been holding. "C'est l'oeuvre de mon grand-père," he explained with pride. "Il était cuisinier dans la famille d'un maréchal de l'Empire," and added, "madame peut copier ce dont elle a besoin." I felt overwhelmed at this proposal, for I realized that poor Auguste was giving me what he prized most in the world. Perhaps the great Napoleon had supped off grandpapa's _entrées_, or Josephine had tasted an ice or some _brioche_ made by grandpapa's hands. These recipes have for Auguste the mysticism of the lore of Merlin. They are, in his words, _magnifiques_, _superbes_, and the last words of culinary art. "Mes secrets," he generally calls them. Grand'maman bound them in white vellum, and the book has been handed down as a priceless heirloom in Auguste's family. I felt I could hardly thank my cook sufficiently for his kind thought. There Auguste stood in irreproachable white linen cap and coat. No prince could have believed that he could offer a more splendid gift, as he repeated, with a theatrical wave of his hand, "Madame peut tout copier." And then added, with an indulgent smile, "Madame est malade, cela lui fera un plaisir énorme." I rose to the occasion and said, as "bonne ménagère." I found it difficult to express my gratitude. At this Auguste retired a step, and then, with a courtly bow, exclaimed grandly, his eye upon my embroidery which lay near on a chair, "Il faut que les artistes se consolent dans les jours de tristesse," and so saying, vanished to reign over his own kingdom. A little later Burbidge came in to see me. In his hand he held a bunch of roses, neatly tied with green matting, a new fad of mine. Amongst the roses that he had brought me, I found a lovely Caroline Testout, of great size and beauty, of a delicate pink with a glow of richer colour in the centre. Then there was an open bud of charming Thérèse Levet, and a full blown splendour of Archiduchesse Marie Immaculata, with its curious red-brick tints; and two or three blossoms of the dear old-fashioned Prince Camille de Rohan of a deep, brownish crimson hue. "Here's a few on 'em, just a sprinklin'," said Burbidge. "But oh, 'tis a pity as yer can't see 'em growin'! The sop of rain has brought 'em out, like the sunshine brings out chickens from under a hen's wing. They be popping and peering in the garden, as if they had the Lord Almighty to look at 'em Hisself." "Perhaps He is," I said with a smile. To this Burbidge didn't give direct assent, but like a true Shropshire man, he declared that it was his belief, if the Lord was on earth, it might pleasure Him to see the place, for the whole of the red-walled garden was a garland of flowers. "There be irises, and roses, and peonies; and it be hard to tell the colours. There be all sorts and all shades, most like a glass window in the Abbey Church at Shrewsbury." And Burbidge added, with that true sense of poetry that belongs to the peasant, that "the Wrekin doves they be cooing and fluttering round the firs, same as in a real poem." [Sidenote: A POSY OF ROSES] Burbidge laid the bunch of roses close beside me, for they had slipped off the sofa whilst he was talking. Before going, he vouchsafed the information that there be a Reine d'Angleterre three parts in blow. He pronounced the French words strangely, but I understood from many talks what was meant in Gallic, and that he would bring it to me. "And 'tis a great deal, I think, the sight of a new rose--leastways, 'tis to me; for it allus pleases, and it never can be uncivil like many Christians," he said. After which profound dictum, my good old gardener hobbled off. These kind gifts and little attentions touched me. I appreciated much Auguste's thoughtful kindness, and Burbidge's pity for my misfortune, for it was his invariable rule that a "first blow," must show itself first in a garden. "Don't 'e interfere with the Lord's system," he once said to me, when I wanted to gather a new tree peony. "Let it pleasure itself first time in the garden, and arter yer may please yerself." I smelt my bunch of roses, the fragrance was delicious, soft and sweet, and only to be fully appreciated by dipping one's nose well into the centre of the sweetest. Certainly a rose is a lovely flower, and it is wonderful what gardeners have done to tend, improve, and develop it, and it was hard to imagine that any of the great double complex blossoms that I held in my hand, were first cousin, and lineally descended from the wild rose of the hedges. Yet delicious as roses are, and beloved by most men, and women, there have been, and may be, for aught I know, some who still cordially hate them, as cordially as Lord Roberts is said to dislike the presence of a cat, or a certain Duchess that I have been told of, the approach of horses. Marguerite of Navarre, the wife of Henry IV. of France, is said to have found the perfume of roses so repellent, that she fainted if one was brought her; and I remember in Evelyn's Diary of 1670, an account of a dinner-party at Goring House, in which he tells us that, "Lord Stafford rose from table in some disorder, because there were roses stuck about the fruit at dessert." Sir Kenelm Digby also told a story of the same kind of Lady Selenger (St. Leger). Her antipathy to this flower he declared to have been so great, that some one laying a rose beside her cheek when asleep, thereby caused a blister to rise. Whether the story was true it is too long ago to tell; but by all accounts Sir Kenelm "was a teller of strange things." Whilst I was thinking over these old-world stories, I was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of my little girl. "Oh, mamma," cried Bess, with tears in her eyes, "only to think he--Hals--has to go, to go in two days." "Do not cry, little one," I replied. "Papa and I have settled that I am to go off for a week to the seaside, and you shall come too; and even Mouse shall have her ticket." At this Bess was comforted, for the prospect of the sea, the sands, and a spade of her very own, were very consolatory. But the day that little Hals left us, she came to me just before going off to bed. "Mum," she said, "I've been thinking." "Yes, dear," I replied. "I've been thinking," pursued Bess, "that somehow there ought to be--a way to keep a boy. Grown-up girls have husbands, I know," she said. Then, after a momentary pause, "You have a great, great book of Harrod's. Surely, somewhere, mamsie, they have a boy stall." I laughed and kissed my little girl. "We are poor creatures," I said, "we girls and women. We have all for centuries wanted to buy some boy, and haven't yet found out where or how to do it." [Sidenote: "GOOD-BYE! GOOD-BYE!"] A few days later, Bess and I found ourselves on the Wenlock station platform. Masses of boxes surrounded us, and Mouse, with a label tied to her collar, sat watching us intently. "Why aren't you glad to go--glad as I am, mamsie?" cried Bess, impetuously. "You know the doctor said that it would make you quite better, and we can bathe together in the sea. Besides," added my little maid, with wisdom beyond her years, "if you only go, you are always much gladder to come back." We jumped into a carriage, and Mouse looked out of the window. Burbidge took my last injunctions. Then the train moved off, and the ruins and old town of Wenlock faded before my eyes. "Good-bye, dear old place!" I murmured. And as we dashed on, faintly sounding on the breeze, I caught the last notes of the distant chimes--"Good-bye! Good-bye!" INDEX A Abbey Farmery, 233, 279 Ales-hoof, 262 All Fools' Day, 132 Almonds, 131 Amiel, 2 Anemones, 16, 228 varieties, 289 Annuals, 283 Anstice, Squire, 168 Apple Howlers, 242 Arabis, 98 Ashfield Hall, 53 Austrian briar, 137 Ayrshire briars, 283 B Bachelors' Buttons, 173 Bacon, Lord, 300 Bacon's garden, 293 Baily Clerke, Sir John, _alias_ John Cressage, 153 Banister or Banaistre, 83 Banister's Coppice, 83 Beans, Mont d'Or, 50 Bee charms, 140, 141 Bee hives, 139 Bees, 137, 138 Berners, Dame Juliana, 100 Birds' country names, 179 Blackbird, 94 Blackcap, 16, 220 Black ouzel (blackbird), 184 Blore Heath, 155 Bog myrtle, 176 Borde, Andrew, 300 Boscobel, 227 Botelar, Sir Thomas, 151, 152, 153 Botryoides hyacinths, 136 Bouncing Bess (Valerian), 173 Bridle, the scold's, 247 Browne, Sir Thomas, 156 Buckingham, Duke of, 83 Bull-baiting, 166 Bull-ring, 163, 250 C Caer Caradoc, 273 Camden, 211 Canaries, 36 Cap St. Martin, 11 Carrion crow, 104, 105 Chaffinch, 8, 65, 185 Chapter House, 209 Charité, La, 95 Charles I., 53 Charles II., 227 Chartres, 42 Chaucer, 171 Chaucer's garden, 298 Chimes, 12, 321 Chionodoxa, 64, 136 _Choisya ternata_, 233 Clee Hill, 79 Clematis Flammula, 40 Clematis Jackmanni, 40 Clematis Montana, 40 Cloisters, 173 Clugniac monks, 161 Clun, 77, 109 Cobbett, 213 Cock-fighting, 199, 200, 201 Columbines, 251 Comus, 314 Convolvulus, 51 Corncrake, 226 Corsica, 12 Corvehill, Sir William, 153 Craven Arms, 81 Cressage, John, _alias_ Sir John Baily Clerke, 153 Crimson Rambler, 40 Crocuses, 96, 97, 135 Cromwell, Oliver, 5 Cromwell, Thomas, 211 Crown Imperials, 136 Cuckoo, 148, 149, 185, 285 Cuckoo's Cup, 196 D Daffodils, garden varieties, 174 Dahlias, 109 Daphne, 9, 17 Darwin Tulips, 136 Delphiniums, 281 Devil, Timothy Theobald's views on the, 242 Digby, Sir Kenelm, 320 Dog-rose, 226 E Ecall (woodpecker), 260 Eckford's sweet peas, 51 Edge Wood, 181, 182 Elizabeth of York's bower, 295 Ellesmere, 166 Escargots, 95, 96, 238 Evelyn, John, 295 Exeter book, 148 F Fanshawe, Sir Richard, 302 Farley Dingle, 83, 226 Favourite flowers, 120 Forester, Squire, 206, 207 _Fraxinella Dictamnus_ (Burning Bush), 173, 256, 257 G Games in Shropshire, 304-12 Gardens, 290 at La Mortola, 11 Geraniums, sweet-scented, 234, 235 "Gerard's Herbal," 43, 74, 301 Ghosts of Ludlow Castle, 315 Gladioli, varieties, 116 Godwin, Bishop, 211 Grass, bulbs in, 163 Grass of Parnassus, 124 Greenfinch, 122 H Hampton Court, 295 Hanbury, Sir Thomas his garden at La Mortola, 11 Hedgehog, 236, 237 Heliotrope, 234 Hellebores, 97 Henricus Stephanus, 254 Henry VIII., 212 Herbert, George, 302 Herbs, 258 Hesperides, 297 Highclere, 290 High Ercall, 302 Hill, Thomas, 300 Homer, 144 Honeysuckle, 226 Hotel Bellevue, 11 I Irises, Spanish, 136 J Jackdaws, 9, 173 Jack squealer, 215 Jay, 182 Johnnie's watch, 197 Judy Cookson, 247 K Kenilworth, 299 King, Collins, 224 King-cups, 121 Kiss-in-the-ring, 199 Kitty wren, 145 Kynaston, Humphrey, 110 L Langley, 292 Laon, 256 Latimer, 213 Lawson, 301 Leper's chamber, 173 Leveret, the, and "Mouse," 273 _Lilium Auratum_, 173 _Lilium Martagon_, 173 Longleat, 254 Longmynd, 273 Loppington, 167 Love in the Mist, 51 Lucky flower, marsh marigold, 191 Ludlow Castle, 314, 315 M Macaws' colours, 14 Madeley manor, 153 Madeley wakes, 167 Magpie, 182 Malope, 51 Malory, 2 Manetti, stock for roses, 136 Markham, 300 Marsh marigold, a lucky flower, 191 Martagon lilies, 173 Mary proclaimed queen, 154 Masque of flowers, 303 May Day, 166, 171, 172 Mediterranean, 12 Mentone, 11 "Mezeron tree," 62 Milburgha, Saint, 30, 32, 59, 60 Milton, John, 6, 313 Mistress Tuggy's bower, 299 Montaigne, 3, 115 Moody, Tom, 202, 203, 204 Moor-hen, 134 Moor Park (Herefordshire), 296 Moor Park (Surrey), 296, 297 More, Sir Thomas, 84 Morris dancers, 195 Mortola (La), gardens at, 11, 12 Moss roses, 281 Mouse-ear, 259 Mytton, Sheriff, 83 N Nanny Morgan, 89, 90 Napoleon, 12 Narcissus, Stella and Cynosure, 162 Nest, a forsaken, 240 Nonsuch, 294, 301 O Oak-apples, 226, 227 Oaken gates, 168 Old Soul, 203, 204 Oreilles d'Ours, 176 Osborne, Dorothy, 297 Ounts, 101 P Palm Sunday, 150 Parson Mortimer, 168 Patrick's (Saint) shamrock, 123 Peacock, 9 Pear varieties, 108 Penance, 250 Penzance briars, 283 Peonies, 251, 259 Peonies (tree), 282 Periwinkles, 121 Piers Ploughman, 149 Pigeons, 9 Pinks, 258 Pittosporum, 11 Poke-puddings (tomtits), 8, 239 Poppies, Oriental, 251 Poppies, Shirley, 52 Posenhall, 155 Primroses, 121, 159 _Primula_, _Cashmeriana_ and _Japonica_, 176 Punishments, ancient, 246 Q Quice (wood-pigeons), 94, 184 R Ranunculi, 108, 109, 228 Raven's bowl, the, 196 Redstart, 217, 218 Ribes, 135 Ring-ouzel, 219 Robin, 29, 99 Roger de Montgomery, 33, 161, 313 Rooks, 9, 101, 102, 103, 159 Rose haters, 319, 320 Rose, Japanese, 137 Roses, hybrid tea, 135 Roses, old, 43 Roses, red, 299 Roses, tea, 40 Roses, varieties, 108, 282, 318 Rosemary, 255 Royal oak, 227 Rue, 292 Rupert, Prince, 53 S Scilla Sibirica, 162 Servant hiring, 244 Severn, 147 Sheinton Street, 56 Sherlot Forest, 121 Shinewood, 83, 84 Shipton, 84, 291 Shropshire games, 304-12 Silverton, 79 "Sister Helen," 66, 71 Skylark, 122, 123 Spital Street, 154 Stafford, Lord, 320 Starlings, 8, 63 Stocks, 246 Stonhill coppice, 168 Storm-cock, 94, 233 Swans, 134, 135 T Temple Garden, 292 Temple, Sir William, 297 Theobalds, 299 Thomas à Kempis, 48 Thrush, 95, 239, 253 Tiberius, the Emperor, 269 Tomtits, 8, 239 Tong Church, 299 Tradescant, John, 301 V Violas, 235 Violets, 94 garden varieties, 174 white, 120 W Wagtail, yellow, 240 Wake Sunday, 196 Watch-tower, 9 Well, St. Milburgha's, 61 Wenlock station, 321 Wife, sale of a, 247 Wormwood, 261 Wrekin, 147, 197 Wrekin doves, 249 Wrens, 8, 98 THE END PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ RURAL ENGLAND. 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(p. 41) ABBY ABBEY (Illustration to face p. 94) as we are won't to call her. as we are wont to call her. (p. 119) bird-nest at at once bird-nest at once (p. 181) ring ouzel ring-ouzel (p. 219-220) It faut que Il faut que (p. 319)